Keira has taken to ‘setting up shop’ in our walk-in-wardrobe. Her wares are exclusively our shoes, and it could be any part of the day when I walk by our bedroom to hear her muffled cries within of, “Shoes for sale! Come and try my shoes!”
So I oblige, and walk in to see her waving a hand, very ‘Price is Right’ style, saying, “What would you like to try?”
I must say I am rather pleased she has taken to playing with non-techno toys or games, but I really don’t think my humble collection of shoes quite meets up to her enthusiasm.
I put on shoes that must be at least ten years old. I dangle my foot around in the light, trying to be objective, but when Keira asks, “Do you like it?” more often than not I have to admit to myself, “No, not really.”
They are all tired. The leather is scuffed. The soles are uneven or bald. They all have a history, too. I put on my wedding shoes and can barely pull the straps over my barnacled, scabby, flesh. I would never wear them in public again because my feet look so ugly. I don’t see why I bought them in the first place, to be honest.
Adam also must try on his old shoes. We look at each other, and we (well, I do) wonder at her creativity, but also at our lack of style and sophistication. Imelda Marcus or David Beckham, we are not.
But I don’t think I’d want it any other way.
