Shoes Your Illusion

It was nearly end-of-financial-year sales time, & I had a split in my sneakers. Normally, this would mean a quick trip to my favourite supplier, but they had temporarily disgraced themselves because this pair weren't very old when they came apart at the seams.

Under duress (that is, with Mrs Unwisdom), I was escorted into a well-known high-end sports-oriented, shoe-specialist shop claiming to have 50% off. You can probably tell from that sentence that the likelihood of me entering said shop would approximate zero without such an enticement - & even then, only when accompanied by an adult (Mrs Unwisdom).

I shall set the scene - it's a very ordinary, large, popular, outer suburban shopping centre on a Saturday morning. I'm wearing the fore-mentioned sneakers, plus a jacket that I've just discovered from my fatter days that I used to love (& Mrs Unwisdom hates), with the expectation that I will also purchase its replacement. As a side note, the last time I bought sneakers with the better half in tow (more likely vice versa), she made me change in the shop & asked them politely if they had a bin behind the counter.

Back to "Expensive Shoe Store" (because I don't want to use a brand name).

After picking through the shoes placed thoughtfully outside the shop, like a tramp looking for the least grotty-looking leavings behind a restaurant, I had come up with a likely candidate that did not look as though someone had already thrown up over it. You can guess from that statement that I wasn't looking for anything so lurid that it would scare small animals (even colour blind ones).

They just weren't right - they were priced above what my critical brain tells me a shoe made in a child-labour sweat shop in name-your-favourite-third-world-country should be, & they were certainly no more comfortable than my favourite brand (made in the same factory by the siblings). I was turning somewhat donkey (Mrs Unwisdom may have used a less kind equine reference), when helpful-shop-assistant burst upon the scene in her cleverly contrived sports-reference uniform & probably overly-spongy joggers designed specifically for wearing whilst selling overly-spongy joggers to overly-spongy joggers.

"FIND ANYTHING YOU LIKE?" she politely shouted at us, managing to maintain a rising inflection.
"Not really - have you got anything ... less colourful?"
"THERE ARE SOME MORE SHOES AT THE BACK ON SALE!" she burbled, still managing to emphasise "at the back" in the way that a drunk might try to slyly wink at the barmaid.
When I looked non-plussed, she continued her tirade.
"OR IF YOU TELL ME YOUR BUDGET, I CAN SEE IF WE'VE GOT SOMETHING ELSE!"

Ah. I see.
My intentionally understated dress-sense has finally been noticed by the eyes that seem to slip past me to categorise everyone who enters the joint as potential thief or customer.

I am assured that her IQ exceeded her shoe size, but I suspect that her realm of social acquaintance rarely got beyond the pub about 500 metres distant on a Friday night. My lips parted in anticipation of telling her that I was quite capable of buying footwear if only for my sense of taste.

Mrs Unwisdom hustled me out before I could formulate a sufficiently low-brow retort for the young "lady" to fully comprehend, but I got my way, partially. We did end up buying shoes at my favourite shop: not quite what I was looking for, but different enough that I can still enjoy that slightly shabby sense of coming apart at the seams.