boots

 hurry past the church, a woman approaches her glasses fogged up because of the mask that she is wearing. She is wearing a hat and a scarf, and  a mask and is peering through he greyed-out glasses. The gate to the main street is open, it used to be closed at night to keep the pub goers out. They used to foul the graveyard before the gate was installed. Now, in the pandemic, they probably do not bother to lock the gate at night any more.

Through the arches, all the closed shops there. The fancy restaurant is trying to make a living selling pizzas to take away, but this will hardly do. Ahead, there is the post office, the yellow logo with the black hunting horn symbol upon it. A pleasant surprise, there is no queue inside. Walk all the way down the long  hall to the counters at the end,  and give the letter to the man there behind the counter. He looks at it, turns it over and reads the back. Hand over the small plastic identification card, he glances at it, excuses himself, and goes into the store behind the counter. He returns with a plastic bag with labels stuck upon it. He scans the label, scans the original paper and then asks for thirteen euros.

Pay. Say goodbye and leave with the plastic bag containing a pair of shoes.

The shoes had been ordered upon a whim four months ago.

Two letters to the seller. Two replies.

At home, take the boots out of their plastic bag, they smell strongly of low-grade plastic. The soles have a rose embossed on the underside, they smell of petrochemicals. The boots are flimsy and light, the leather work is poorly done, the stitching unsteady, the glue showing at the junction between leather and plastic like a slug trail.

They are really light quality.

Try one on. It fits like a glove and is really comfortable. It makes the monstrous foot look neat and trim.

It is a shame that the manufacturing quality is so poor.