hard walk home

I needed to go somewhere so I packed a bag, dressed appropriately and walked out the door. The sky was grey and the wind whistled up the West End street. I carried books and papers in my arms and I walked about a couple of blocks before it began to rain and my feet hurt too much to continue as I was wearing high black heels. I decided to go back, change my shoes and find an umbrella, and venture back out again. Though I knew I would be late, I felt that this was the only option. I turned and started to hobble toward home; I could barely walk with the pain. A gust of wind blew up under the books and papers in my arms and pages scattered across the footpath. I squatted, balancing awkwardly so as not to lose the rest of the papers or my bag off my shoulder, and attempted to collect the sodden pages. A group of young people swaggered down the street and invaded my personal space. One of them reached into my bag for my wallet and I talked him out of it, telling him that he would be disappointed.