My mentor told me how to write a poem about slippers. Make it easy, he said. comfortable and cozy, warm, no prickly bits. More lamb than hedgehog.
I had a girlfriend once who forbade me to wear slippers: ‘Next thing I know”, she said, ‘You’ll be wearing a dressing gown, reading cozy murder mysteries and shuffling around the house like an old man.”
My dogs when they were puppies took a violent dislike to slippers, tearing them apart with a vitriolic zeal of which my girlfriend would have approved. For years I walked around the house in loafers until the puppies grew up and out of their habit.
Whenever I hear Bing Crosby sing White Christmas over the PA system in his hush puppy voice I think of slippers. Slippers are like bean bags for the feet.When you slump into them they have the feel of home.
There was someone sitting at our table. This was the second time in less than a month that this had happened. My friend in the wheelchair was ropable but I suggested, good old level-headed me, that we cool it.
Mind if we sit at our table? I asked.
Be my guest, he said quaffing his ale.
We won’t bother you, I said and then after we got our beers we became companionable.
Our friend introduced himself.
Steve, he said extending his arm for a handshake. I didn’t want to seem prissy and Covidy, so I shook it with all the manliness I could muster. [I go to gym :)]
Unlike our former usurper, the bloke with a book, Steve was not a reader. He was a man of action who spent much of his life as a pneumatic/hydraulic mechanical engineer working in mines throughout Queensland and W.A.
He was a good drinker too, downing four pints to our one. And he was still lucid and like our former companion a Catholic who still attended mass.
How come, I said to my mate after, we always end up with Catholics?
And loners, he said.
Maybe it says more about us than them? I suggested.