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
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?