Free Shoe Spree
Next to the bin, a sign: Free (and in tiny letters: ‘at last’).
This counts as an only in Fairfax moment.
Hence the careful mating up of the pairs, the arrangement on the curb, and the scary sensation that the corner of Blackberry and Creek might just be a dangerous one (there was a car parked right where my head was)…. the commuters were taking the turn pretty fast, and there I am in my usual Homeless Couture black winter coat, mess(n)gr bag, unlaced Shemano Shooz….
a rather disposable piece of street scene…
As I framed the shot a jogger came up and begged to buy the Doc Martens.
“No charge, m’dear, they’re not mine”…
“Perfect for Burning Man” she said.
She was a foot shorter than me and she insisted she had size elevenn feet.
Mine r nine, and that is considered very Platterishly big.
I shall never understand why it’s so damn important to have SMALL feet.
“Can you hide them in the ivy so they’ll be there when I get back?” she said as the golden retriever yanked her up the street.
The shoes had remained there overnight, but the fascinating leather bowling bag, big as a doctor’s kit bag had been nabbed. It had been the only thing I could even imagine ‘needing’ (once the strange circular plastic platform on the inside had been torn out).
After the shot, I jammed all the high -heeled shoes in my panniers (not the boots– I dutifully hid those in the tall weeds for the jogger to find) and headed to Solevation Armyboots.