On the day:
30/04/2012
On the way:
The first you'd see of him coming round a corner, by a country mile (or more likely an urban mile) would be his shoes.
Black slip-ons - (Do they indicate an innate impatience with unproductive pursuits such as tying shoelaces? An essential laziness in selecting footwear requiring minimal effort to deploy? An oiliness in that he's always prepared to slip 'em off or slip 'em on - can one rely on such a man?) in soft leather.
And long, they extend far beyond the end of his feet. (Does the conspicuous consumption of such swaths of shoe leather reveal unbounded greed? Is the space they occcupy a territorial display of dominance? Or is it purely phallic?)
But these are not that aggressively pointed species of shoe, evolved to pick unsuspecting winkles off rocks at low tide, if popular parlance is to be taken at face value, but today more commonly used by those who purpose to pick cash from the pockets of unsuspecting citizens seeking second-hand motorised transport or insurance for such a vehicle.
No, there may even be a grace in their ebb and flow, the smooth slope down from the generous tongue, the ridges running either side to an geometric imaginary convergence far beyond the reality of the shoe, and before the end, the leisurely lift that betrays the excess, the unoccupied area that has never felt the downward pressure, the idle inch. What could it all mean?
Probably not all that much. Not compared to the Marti Pellow twinkle in his eyes, the delight in his smile, the hiccups of laughter as he talks on his phone, a steady stream, a babbling brook of some south Asian language. A joyful noise, the sound of a man in whose shoes you would gladly walk a mile.
On the pod:
Beautiful People - Pet Shop Boys
On the front page:
Rift at the heart of Europe (The Times)
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