Getting the Shoehorn.

Would it be weird if I started carrying around a shoehorn?  

Thanks to earning my living as an actor (this being a joke in and of itself), I seldom have much in the way of additional funds. As a result, I only own two pairs of decent shoes; one of which used to be my dad's.

(One of the two pairs, that is.)

I don’t want to paint a picture of myself as being destitute. At least not literally; my artistic skills are limited at best. I have other footwear, but these are mostly ‘show shoes’ – or showoes – and not the sort of thing I’d wear out on the street.

I’ve worn my dad’s shoes so many times that the soles now have about as much grip as a snail on a heavily-vaselined window. If you’ve never put a snail onto lubricated glass then your childhood was evidently less deprived than mine; only-children are forced to make own entertainment.

This lack of purchase with the pavement has led to two separate incidents, both of which I’ve covered on this blog (click here and here to read the evidence.) These accidents have become frequent enough for me to resort to always wearing the pair of shoes I consider to be my best – though this comes with its own predicament.

David's 'best' shoes.

Something about the way they’re laced makes it exceptionally difficult to put them on, particularly when I'm slipping on the right one. I say ‘slipping on’, though this is an impossibility; it’s more a case of forcing it, injuring my fingers, thumbs and right heel in the process.

This is particularly embarrassing when I’m with other people, as the ensuing panic over whether I can get my shoes on quickly makes me struggle with them even more. I’m sure that nobody else would worry about things like this.

Perhaps I have an abnormally large right foot? I’ve never tried to measure it.

It think it's time to get my ruler out.