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Saturday, 15 November 2008

how to get rid of a squeak in your shoes

A miraculous healing has occurred. No, I still have my spots. It's my shoes that have been touched with the healing power of ... the healing power of ... a wet weekend in Sheffield.

If you read my October post 'How-to Guides 1 & 2', you'll know that my shoes got soaked in an embarrassing and humiliating episode which I'd prefer to forget, which is, of course, why I've recorded it all on my blog (?!). What I didn't say at the time was that this was a pair of shoes that, since I'd bought them, had squeaked. As they were brand new, and as we know, all newborns squeak a little, I forgave them. But after three months, I'd discovered that I couldn't wear them for any activity that didn't entail background noise. Going to town, nightclubs, pubs, standing on the forecourt at Heathrow: fine. Invigilating exams, walking down quiet streets at night, tiptoeing past sleeping anacondas on my way to Tescos: not fine.

You know that ominous sound that comes from the other side of the hotel wall when a couple is indulging in pleasurable activity? I don't mean, in a dodgy hotel with a really bad bed. That's not a squeak; that's more of a 'is that bed going to arrive in this room any minute?' sound. No, I mean the kind of bed that has just one of its springs defective. It's a bearable sound in that situation, at least with a couple of earplugs or some Brahms on Radio 3. But not when it's in your shoes.

Anyway, since that wet weekend in Sheffield when they were transformed into two pieces of leather masquerading as kitchen towel, the squeak has gone. Presumably, I left it behind in a puddle somewhere in Sheffield town centre. It's a miracle. I can now walk past the sleeping anacondas with confidence. This is, of course, as long as it's dry weather, because even though they don't squeak, they're still as leaky as old gossips.

Still, for sixty-five quid, you can't have everything.

PS While I wrote this post, a fly dived into my hot cup of tea and lay there, floating belly-up, without a care in the world, as though on holiday in the Costa Brava. I checked carefully to see if it was wearing Speedos and a gold chain, but no. Still, as I fished it out, I swear it said: 'Bring me another Becks, Sharon'. The cheek.

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