{Whoops of joy!
Little compares to the unexpected gladness of finding the perfect pair of shoes.}
Today, quite by chance, in a vintage store in the Royal Arcade, I came across the perfect pair of second-hand shoes in my very size. Well-worn and softened in all the right places, the Italian leather the colour of honeyed-toffee, they are the shoes I never knew I was searching for. Just in that very day, the girl behind the glass counter assured me. I tried them on and they felt comfortable, right, and, like all chance finds, meant to be. I snapped them up then and there, and wore them home.
I have never been one to ponder upon the identity of the previous owner of such a second-hand find. I am aware there is a history, a story attached, but I’ve never given much thought to the adventures they may or may not have had in my new coat or wrapped snug in my new scarf, or where they walked in my new shoes.
In my elation, I called my Mum to describe to her my handsome new shoes and it turns out, based solely on my description, she had a pair the very same. With tiny wooden heel, cut out sections and brown lace, they were a favourite pair of shoes she regretted passing on to a friend in a wardrobe clean out. Could I have purchased my Mum’s shoes, I wonder? Yes, it seems more than likely I have. Now that I look at them by the front door they look awfully familiar, but I have always been one given to suggestibility at such times.
Until I scour the photo album circa late 70s meets early 80s and until I see my Mum next, it remains an enchanting mystery.
+ Bench Monday, take IV
