I offer to take on curious mystery of single shoe-biz

Tag : ladies' slipper
WHENEVER chancing upon them, as you do, I ponder why it's alwaysjust the one boot, shoe, trainer, sandal, or slipper laying in theroad, and never a pair?

Whereas I'd happily trouser a quid for every such item of footwearI've come across over the years, I don't recall ever seeing a pair.

You have to agree it's a curious business.

Surely, if a shoe is chucked out, what's the use of keeping itsfellow, even if it's wearable? Odd socks may do, at a pinch.Differing shoes are something else.

I believe these lone clodhoppers fall by the wayside, literally,rather than being dumped there.

Somehow they slip off the back of bikes or tumble out of rucksacksand schoolbags, so their loss isn't noticed till journey's end.

It was to avoid such misfortune that we used to hang our footerboots over the handlebars, where we could see them, biking homefrom Fairlop Airfield after Sunday morning kickabouts 60 plus yearsago.

Taking care, let me add, they were well cinched up.

That precaution followed the "dangling boot-front wheel" calamitywhich befell us one time.

On that occasion, our gang, distracted by the "hurry up call" ofroast beef and Yorkshire, had not quite reached the proper roadwhen Billy, heading the sprint, went a purler so sudden andunexpected that the chasing pack crashed headlong into him, andeach other.

The racket would have affronted any afternoon, let alone theSabbath.

No black box was needed. Billy emerged from under the pile-up withboot still firmly wedged in his front wheel.

I recall his added dismay when, wrenching free the boot, he bust abent spoke.

Remarkably, only bumps and grazes resulted.

Our bikes just required straightened handlebars and mudguards. Itwas, however, a salutary lesson, which we heeded.

The Horns was a quiet road of a Sunday back then, but it was stillas well our multiple prang didn't happen there.

It might not have been the laughing matter which, suitablyembellished, that swiftly passed into the lore of Dane School'sform 3A.

The surprise was that none of our belongings were left laying,shoe-like, in the dust that day.

Given my alleged (by Madam) preponderance for losing things notfastened to me, it's equally surprising a shoe of mine hasn't goneastray, although I did once manage to "lose" both simultaneously.

Lounging with colleagues over afternoon coffee in Joe Lyons next tothe old Recorder office, I was unwise - and uncouth - enough tostick my feet up under the table on to the chair opposite me.

The beggars promptly yanked off both shoes and gleefully departedwith them, leaving me to follow in socks.

They shut me out of the reporters' room, while my footwear washidden, letting me in with invites to hunt the slipper.

For the rest of the afternoon I was sans shoes.

On my several visits downstairs to editor Basil Amps's office Ibanked on him being too busy to notice.

But late in the day he summoned me.

"I'm going", he said, adding cryptically, "before I lock my door, Ithink you should take your shoes off my window-ledge.

"I assume they're yours, since for the past couple of hours you'vebeen going about without any on."

Elementary, my dear Watson!

Trailing from my shoes was the baling-string by which they'd beenlowered from the reporters' window.

Ladies' loo apart, Basil's window-ledge was the last place I'd havelooked.

With those jokers I was lucky my brown suedes were not in the HighRoad gutter.

I don't for a moment hold that the odd shoe you see by kerbs hasanything to do with similar schoolboy antics.

Basil's sussing out about mine hardly required Holmesian deduction.

Yet, the puzzle of why there is invariably just that one solitarypiece of footwear left stuck on the highway might defeat thecombined talents of Sherlock, Lord Peter, Albert Campion, Poirot,Maigret, Father Brown, Reacher and Stephie Plum - with Norman andHenry Bones thrown in for good measure.