Tuesday, 21 May 2013

My Turkish slippers will be the death...

of me!

When I fall in love I do it with every fibre
of my being.

I have a pash. pot pourri...
gay men top the list
the smell of...
the quiet country-side
crushed underfoot

the play of words on a page

the British put-down coming from caring

Worn, torn clothes, weft and warp imbibed
with history in every fading fibre

My Turkish slippers...
bought over ten years ago.
Many times they have been to the snobs (cobblers)
for a make-over.
Every time he says this will be the last.

I wrote about them on 4 February 2011
'The cobbler mopped my tears with a shabby chamois'

Ted rode to the rescue...
here we are two years later,
the snob rolled over at the onset of my tears,
followed hard on the heels of man on a mission.
Since then he has restitched them, saying once again those fatal words
'This will positively be the last time!'

Once again Ted was sent on the covert mission to 
not only get my slippers reconstituted, but my Russell and Bromley boots
as well.  Bought years ago for the princely sum of £5.

Same conversation, only with the added threat of how much
it is all going to cost.
Water off a duck's back, when the force that
is 'Lady Docker' is in full spate.

Now I know I'm always cracking on about bribery and corruption...
however when needs must...
palms and folding money come into play.
I'm not proud!

Getting home from a damp day in Scotney,
my slippers awaited my return.
Drying myself off, my first job was to try them on.
'Ooooh, they're a bit slippery!'
Man retires to garage to rough-up their soles.
Back on they go and the very first thing I
do is skate-board across the fat I'd just skimmed from Lettice's casserole,
falling with a crash and bending my knee
ever-so badly back.

Soaking in a Radox bath this morning,
I idly thought perhaps the cobbler
is planning the end game? 


  1. Laminate and tiled floors must cause thousands of domestic accidents every year. There's a lot to be said for carpets. I hope your injury isn't long-lasting. Perhaps you should visit Turkey for a new pair of slippers or always dress in one of those pumped up sumo suits around the house...Cobblers!

    1. Guilty as charged... the floor is tiled with those lovely tiles you see in posh Thai hotels. Didn't you know pretentious was my middle name. Added to which the tiles had so many fissures and veins that we were given loads more than was needed. Shame to waste them: the house now resembles a gents urinal, and with Lettice's widdle bed scenario the two seem to have a certain symmetry. Method acting by any other name would smell as sweet.


  2. The vision of you skateboarding across your kitchen floor made me choke on my sandwich! Hope injuries not too serious! Love those slippers!

    1. I wouldn't mind but the Soho splat and this one, were when I was stone, cold sober! My body now resembles a map of Europe, with the bruise on the top of my arm the shape of Italy. I'm living in fear Berlusconi will appear, as if by magic? My knee looks like Rockall, the scars on my legs from Soho, look like the Summer Isles. The Minch... best not go there!


  3. You must buy a pair of woolly tartan granny slippers with rubber soles and pom poms immediately! Your country needs you!

    1. As long as they arrive in a plain brown paper parcel. I could almost see myself taking to them. I fancy myself as a trend-setter... it happened with Dr Scholls, so why not?


  4. Death by Cobbler. Is there any domestic sartorial crisis quite so sad as the demise of a beloved pair of shoes or favourite pair of jeans or faithful "maths teacher's" jacket? I suppose that at least, if you are murdered by the cobbler, you may rest assured that your soul will be well taken care of.

    1. Oh... the comfort of an old slipper. Must confess I've not in my wildest dreams (fantasies even) pictured you in JEANS... how very common, dear chap. Harris Tweed, Crombie, Gieves and Hawkes, woolly long-johns (mind the moths), Pachacuti Panama hats... yes!

      When you coming back, we miss you.


    2. Ah, yes, well I say "jeans" but I refer only to grey or blue-black thingies from Messrs Boden of Scotchland. It's been many a decade since a pair of Levis or Wranglers fitted my sportsman's seat. Levi 501-602s were the jobbies, as I remember, and then they stopped producing the the "602" variant and went soley into drainpipes for the pre-pubescent spotty masses.

      I discovered the change one Saturday morning in a shop in Preston, Lancashire - one of those overheated shops with half-curtain changing closets. I got a pair of jeans stuck around my knees, they'd go neither up nor down and I lost my balance and fell out into the shop in front of everyone, legs and buttocks flailing, laughing like a loon, gussets ripping and gas escaping. Never again. If it's not Jermyn Street it's the Interwebnetonline for me now.

  5. Bending the knee is clearly your body's way of thanking them for all their service, surely. Nothing wrong with that.

    1. I've done too many bending the knee in the form of curtsying, in a past life, to ever want to do it again. Now buying the man a pint... that's respect man!