Rachel, my wife, has a shoe cupboard.
Well, actually, it’s more like a shoe gallery. Don’t get me wrong. It’s far from opulent. But in the his and hers shoe contest there is a clear winner.
To me it seems that there are rows and rows of shoes: some shiny, some worn. But each has its own story to tell. There are shoes for the house. There are shoes for work. Shoes for going out. Shoes for playing. Shoes to be happy and shoes to be sad.
Every pair has had its moment in the sun: when it was purchased, rippling with excitement, as the box was opened, the shoes put on, laced up and admired for the very first time.
Rachel loves her shoes.
In a corner of this gallery there is a small ghetto for my shoes. In essence, I have a pair of thongs, a pair of runners, and three pairs of black work shoes which are used for everything else as well.
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The items which adorn my feet have never given me the same satisfaction as they do for Rachel. Her shoes are a seamless extension of her being. While my shoes never seem to fit. They make my feet sore and cause me blisters. Whenever I have finally found a pair that are comfortable they soon develop holes in their soles or come apart at the seams.
Shoes don’t like me. And yet Rachel loves her shoes and they love her back.
Then I had a conversation with William which changed my life. An old friend who is a shoe retailer, William gave me a shoe intervention.