Heading to Suffolk tomorrow, to bury my Uncle Howard. His death was sad, but mixed with a guilty tinge of relief as he'd been suffering from dementia for several years. Aunt Brigid (my mum's older sister) has been stoic in her suffering, but the truth of it is she was widowed a long time ago, it's just that her husband was still hanging around. Such is the way with these neurological disorders. Uncle Howard, and my godfather Roger, who is in the end stages of Alzheimers and so no longer actually Roger anymore, are cases that make my own grief at the loss of my parents last year more bearable. It may seem selfish, or perhaps harsh, but losing them when they were old but still healthy has got to be better than watching them waste away.

Anyway, Suffolk and a funeral. This means digging out the funeral suit (remarkably similar to the memorial service suit, the special occasions suit and the interview suit, but not the birthday suit, which I feel would be inappropriate at a funeral). It also means digging out the shoes that go with it. The last time I was at a funeral, I wore my father's kilt (having stupidly left my own in Wales). It seemed kind of appropriate at the time. On other recent occasions when I've had to be reasonably smart, I've managed to get away with my everyday shoes, which are comfortable and look it.* But Uncle Howard deserves better, and Aunt Brigid is the sort of person who would both notice and comment on footwear not conforming to the highest of standards.

So to the back of the closet I go, in search of a pair of shoes I can't remember wearing in a very long while. This is what I found:

they're meant to be dark brown

I'm not proud that my house is so manky things can get into this kind of state even when they're covered up. But it is a building site, so I'm not that embarrassed either. More of a worry is that the Horse Doctor and I have been living here all the time these shoes have been lurking and collecting their furry coating. We've been breathing the air, and by the look of things a lot more besides.

I dread to think what condition my lungs are in.

* fortunately, I'm not a woman and so can get away with wearing comfortable shoes.


Gabriele C. said…
Which reminds me, I should dust my furniture before it starts looking like that. :)
swallowtail said…

and just out of curiosity... what-O-what is "the Doner Kebab?"

yes, guys get to wear comfortable shoes, but theirs seem to be the ones which grow all-over fuzz. of course, my nice shoes have all been eaten by the pup over the last 2 years, having never made it to the back of the closet.

blessings to you, and your family, especially Aunt Brigid.
JamesO said…
Swallowtail - the Doner Kebab is a middle-eastern delicacy turned into something nightmarish in the UK by the search for fast food. It's basically lamb, minced and spiced and formed into something that looks like a very large skinned rat. It is cooked on a vertical spit, and thin slivers carved off as they are ready. These are put in pitta bread pockets, along with salad, onions, garlic and chilli sauces and sold to drunken folk on the way home from the pub. They are absolutely delicious when you're half cut, and utterly foul when you're sober.

They're also not, technically, a fruit. But they can be a source of some of your five a day.

So now you know.

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