If the shoe fits.

I’m feeling the aftermath of date night this morning, which basically means I’m up and about with The King, our early riser while Mossy sleeps it off in bed with Ari like a pair of teenagers. My feet hurt, though surprisingly not too badly thanks to the panodol I swallowed before we went out. An old fashionista trick that never fails me.  I’m pretty dehydrated and diet or not there’s a ciambella with my name on it waiting at Bertoni.

Mossy and I dumped and ran last night. There is nothing like that walk to the top of Rainbow Lane childless and fancy free, in new heels no less. Lady Moss doesn’t catch the bus after 5pm so we hailed a cab and headed to our first stop of the evening, Lady Craig’s ceramic exhibition “Double Pass”. A group show held at Pine Street Creative Arts Centre until the 30th November, if there’s anything left by then, the works are superb. I have been the lucky recipient of one of Lady Craig’s pieces, a darling bowl glazed in bluey greens, the colour of a late afternoon ocean, its one of my favourite things. I went along last night hoping to add to my growing collection of very special ceramic pieces and was even more stunned by what I saw. Lady Craig has created a series of clocks, all milky soft and pure of form, a dreamy romantic’s own tool to record the passage of time. Her fellow artists have created works of such silken beauty they could be mistaken for fabric standing upright.

Afterwards, Mossy and I walked slowly hand in hand along Cleveland Street, warmed by our first wine of the night, inspired by the creative gift of our friend. Onwards into the bustling twilight that is Friday night in the city, there is something even more special about those party nights before Christmas. There are fewer cabs about but more people willing to share them.

Our path lay in the way of Small Bar on Erskine Street, one of my favourite city streets for the bunch of tiny terraces that have been reinvented as mini food and wine hotspots. The action invariably spills out onto an old back lane probably once used for the same thing, debauched revelers. I started with an Italian Prosecco and a plate of pork and pistachio rillettes with mini cornichons, always a winning combination. The flavours were clearly defined without being overly porky, if a little dry on the palette. We tried the crab cakes which were too doughy for Mossy’s liking and on second try mine too. The surprise was the pulled pork sliders. Sitting from our hidden balcony spot we had spied them hitting many a table below, presented poorly as four squares of Turkish bread on a plain white plate. Mossy took a leap and ordered them,  a wise choice. What had seemed like an inelegant choice of bread at first glance, once tasted was a crisp bite of salty heaven against the soft, sweet juiciness of the pork. Lady Moss found it hard to stop at one.  

Some nights Mossy and I struggle to converse outside the realms of our everyday life, bound by work and children but tonight our talk was as sparkling as the wine. Until my dear Mossy dropped the bomb of the evening. I believe his words went something like “come on darling, you know you’re strange, you’re a clean freak, obsessive compulsive weirdo” all said affectionately of course, his own little roasted nutcase.

Which, of course got me to thinking. And obsessing, most of the night long. When did this behaviour start? If I’m honest with myself I can trace it back to my first remembered pair of shoes. Dad and I went shopping together before school sports carnival when I was eight years old. Could’ve even been younger. As was the way with dad, I generally had free rein to choose as I pleased and this morning we settled on a perfectly white pair of canvas tennis shoes, nothing about the branded sneakers appealed to me, I was a classic girl early on I suspect. He was persuaded by the store assistant to purchase a vial of white sandshoe paint normally thrown to the back of the cupboard and forgotten along with the shoe box. Not in this instance, this particular little lady. I still remember looking down at my feet checking for any signs of dirt before leaving the house in those pristine white laceups. Each day after I returned from school I would give them a lick of the paint before leaving them to dry until the morning the smell wafting around my bedroom. Oh those special shoes, long unworn as I grew out of them to spend my own money on my own beauties all kept in their special boxes, with the number of my cobbler on speed dial.

I take extra special care of all my things but its my shoes that hold me fixated. I have sat for hours before my open closet trying them all on and off again. Even when there has been nowhere to wear them, I have pulled them out needing to make sure they each feel loved. I am sure it is this type of behavior that Mossy is talking about when he so lovingly refers to me as a fruitloop. I just won’t tell him about the sandshoes. And the fact that I still have them.

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