if shoes could talk…

Taking the tube in London (also called metro/subway/underground in other parts of the world) was a grounding experience I needed. In fact, I will dedicate a post on why and how I’d teach my kids to rough it and keep in touch with the ground (or the underground in this context), no matter where life takes them.

Now back to the shoes talking. You get so squeezed in the London tube around 5 o’clock that all you can see, especially a tiny person like me, is people’s shoes…or maybe, someone’s dandruff falling on their coat like first snow in December – dry and fluffy.

Here’re the notes I gathered from that tube/metro/underground ride:

Sneakers: 
Dude, I’m fed up being taken in urinals when you’re so blasted…Yo, you gotta get a grip, bro. My soul’s tearin…the glue can’t keep me goin no long, bro. Watch with the alcohol and the stuff you’re sniffin…You should step on that maths, bro, you’re really capable. I mean, you did the SAT exceptionally well, I heard Professor Gallagher’s snazzy patents commenting about your achievement. Bro, get yourself together, man. I know you’d part with me if they get you at MIT, but if the two snobbish shiny dudes of the professor flattered you so much, then you might really get there. Come on, get your butt off that train, get sober, study man, and get it goin…You’re worth me leavin ya, I won’t cry for ya, I promise, as long as I see ya doin for you somethin good…

Ballerinas – black with a metal brooch
We’re so pretty, we’re so cute, lalalala, lalalala, we’re such lovey-dovey. We’re going to her [our owner’s] boyfriend… although, we don’t really like his stinky boots. We think he’s one of those, they go far, far away where they shoot and all…you know, both of them boots, full of sand and dirt, once we actually saw like blood, you know…like, yeah, blood, like…don’t know…they’re kaki though, really tough looking, you know…awesome…but we don’t think we can stick around them for too long, because they’re always on the go, you know…with the traveling and the shooting and the dying in Afghanistan, you know…And besides, our owner might change us any minute. Yeah, that’s it, we’re heading for Zara, oh no, girls, brace yourselves, WE’RE GOING TO BE CHANGED!

Marry-janes, burgundy color, about size 38, aged 67
“Wake up, wake up, look at those Oxfords, darling, wake up”…
“Waaaaah, I’m sorry, the repair’s coming off its deadline, waaaah, I’m so tired…what is it,dear Left?
“What? Can’t you see the handsome couple opposite us? With a moustache, I’d say around 70-something, reading a book, polished!” Eagerly said Left.
“Nice…but, I guess, hurrying to Mrs. Pump and her gourmet broth at home”, said Right.
“I doubt it. Look, no ring. Shall we give it a kick?”
“Worth trying. Fed up of riding alone ever since we lost dear old sailor moccasins.”

Two pairs of stilettos, one pair in their pink 20s, another patent red, around 23
“Babe, we’re so hot right now. Feeling so hot and cool, you know…Hope we get hooked up t’nite”, suggested the pink pair.
“Hey, you rock girl, o’ course we will darlin, give y’self some credit, will ya; the fishnet tights are so in right now…and the hot pants, rockin…hope Brian’s at the pub t’nite though. I’m aching already and won’t last too long,” said the red pair.
“Rest on your heel, babes, it’ll do ya good. Brian’s gonna be there and hope Eric, too. If not, screw ’em, we’re gonna catch some gorgeous Armanis t’nite, with these red soles! Mwah, mwah, claque, claque!” The red stilettos said, after which, the right scratched the back heel of the left. She wasn’t very confident, maybe?

Clogs
Oh, God, we’re so ugly and we don’t even speak the language – not Italian, not French, not even English. I wish we were french. Thin, sexy, confident, doing the first step at some macho brogues…

Shoes during the FT conference (in London, March ’12)
“Wikipedia has 460m unique visitors a month while Facebook has 432m uniques on mobile alone”…
that’s a lot of shoes
“E-books went from 1% in 2009 to 10% in 2010. Forecast is 20% this year but monthly are 30% dig”, Hachette UK’s Tim Hely Hutchinson’s shoes tapped convincingly.

Courts coming out of a jaguar
“We’ve never been out of a box before. Let alone out in the open. And it looks like that’ll be our last time out in the open…by the looks of it. Yeah, this is Harrods, aaaaaaarrrrrrrrhhhhhh”…

A shoe on a man sleeping near Covent Garden station (outside in a corner)
“Damn, I’m hungry for a conversation…at least. My bro has been gone three months now. This dude ain’t movin out of this dump, looks like I’m stuck on his left foot for a long time…I miss my brother, brother…And it’s cold. and I haven’t been in a warm place in a long, long time. Hope my brother is somewhere recycled…somewhere gone in a nice place…a shoe paradise…No, he’s probably turned into a flip-flop and is in the Bahamas…yeah, dude. I’m proud of ya…enjoy the sand and the breeze dude. I love ya bro. Wherever you are.” 

Author’s shoes…still at the tube
Is she going to move? I mean, our owner? She’s staring at all these foreign dudes? Come on girl, move along, lets’ stretch a bit…Still aching from the 3-hour flight that got us to this foreign place. We haven’t been here and we ain’t liking it so far. A lot of people are staring at us, like we’re some kind of foreigners…You think we don’t have a soul? You think we don’t have our story to tell? Just ask, we’ll tell you about the amount of chewing gum and shit we have to step on…
Come on, girl, take us home, or we’ll pinch you.
No, we’ll give you a blister.
Hurry now.
Go.
Tchew, tchew.
Go home to write, or whatever…

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