Bed and Boots

Bed and Boots

Time to say goodbye to some old friends 


It's just shy of 3 a.m. on a rainy Friday,  the first of 2018 and I am posting this blog, The first in quite some time, but that's another story. My sleep patterns have never been "normal" by any standard. Any family member, or anyone unfortunate enough to have shared a bed with me will tell you that. I often pad around the apartment or read between 3 - 5 in the morning and sometimes even make tea for me and even those who are asleep. They're not always thrilled. I know that because they tell me. 

The night before last I went to the kitchen at about 4 a.m. to drink some water. I'd already been reading for well over an hour. When I got back to the bedroom, I noticed a pretty awful smell. This is strange because - as science has reliably informed us over the years - girls do not smell. At all. Fact. It was a smell just like cat's piss. This is doubly strange because I do not own a cat. I went in and out of the room several times, trying to track down the source of the funk and eventually found it.

My boots.

Damp from the rain and sitting forlornly by the wardrobe, they were now giving off a most offensive feline-like fug in the relative warmth of the apartment. A bacterial love fest was going on in the footwear that, only a few hours earlier, had ensconced my delicate but somewhat damaged feet (yet another story).

My boots are 3-4 years old; they were a gift from an ex. They have taken me over hills, up some smallish mountains (they are not technical boots), into work, through streams, up muddy riverbanks, through areas destroyed by wildfire and along shorelines. They have pounded in-numerous city pavements and have been dragged all over my urban allotment. In all weathers. Last summer they took me all around the highlands of Scotland. This Christmas they got caked in mud, leaves and horse shit as I wandered along footpaths, around fields and through woods around London.

The seams have now split on the right boot and the soles are worn right down. The right sole is punctured and makes discrete farting noises when I walk along (well that's my story and I'm sticking to it). The uppers leak. And they smell. Really bad.

That's it then. The end of the our foot-boot affair has finally loomed into view.

They are now resting on the balcony - as a registered biohazard and possibly attracting any feral cat that may be in the neighbourhood. A new pair has replaced them for more wandering, scrambling and ambling. Never stop exploring.

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