Not counting the mandatory footwear that I had to take into hospital then threw away afterwards, I can’t remember the last time I had a pair of slippers. I always wear sandals in the house and kick them off on the rare moments that I might be sitting down relaxing. When I think back to childhood, we always wore slippers indoors, except my mum, who had some very elegant mules that I longed to wear.
Nanna Hetty’s slippers fascinated me. Actually, it was probably her feet, bearing in mind I was only a little girl. There were lumps and bumps unlike anyone else and I used to get told that it was rude to keep looking. I don’t think it’s a punishment from staring, but I have inherited some of it. Not as bad, yet, but it is there. Arthritis, possibly, and certainly something osteo that runs in the family. My father had it as well. To help myself as much as possible I wear fairly sensible shoes.
I’ve never wanted Cinderella’s glass slippers. She had tiny, delicate feet, so that’s me out for starters. Also, I can’t cope with anyone actually touching my feet, regardless of how handsome the prince might be – ask my husband when he was tasked with removing a tick from my toe when we were in a very remote part of the Highlands a few years ago. He was brave, but not as brave as I had to be.
It would be good to have some ruby slippers like Dorothy’s in the Wizard of Oz, aslong as nobody wanted to kill me for them. I don’t want to relive the story. I just want the magic slippers and modified so that with a click of my heels I could instruct them to take me anywhere. Imagine the traveling time it would save and the places to visit. I would have avoided feeling sea-sick recently, that’s for sure.
Whenever I stayed at Nanna Hetty’s, I followed her around all day. I watched the cooking, baking, cleaning and gardening. If I drove her mad, it never showed. She had lots of time for me and I adored her. She’s been mentioned before and previously featured in my poems. This is a new one.
Nanna Hetty’s Comfy Slippers.
Clouds of Pledge in the
sitting-room,
Patio swept with the outside
broom,
Tea-leaves saved to feed the
roses.
I picked daisies for indoor
posies.
She lets me peep in Uncle’s room
And lifts the blinds to ease the
gloom.
He’s married now and lives in
Reading.
He’s been there ever since the
wedding.
Blankets cover his unused bed.
On his wall, huge African head,
Carved in wood, it fills me with
fear.
Something he brought from
Nigeria.
A duster in her pinny pocket,
Husband’s photo in her locket.
Currant buns on a baking sheet,
And comfy slippers on bunioned
feet.
PMW 2018
Thanks for reading, Pam x
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