When I bought them, I wanted rubber soles to protect them, so I took them to my local cobbler - a Greek Cypriot called Michael who smoked more than any other man I’ve met. When I went to pick them up, there was a notice on the door saying that anyone who wanted to collect their shoes should return the following week. When I returned, his son explained that his father was gravely ill, and the shop would now be closed. He wouldn't take over the business, having just graduated from London University.
When he gave me the shoes, he laughed and said that his father had talked about this ‘pair of clown shoes’, which is exactly what they look like. How nice that my shoes could make a man laugh even as his father lay dying, as he carried out his last obligations.
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