To A Pair of Shoes

I know I've neglected you, shoes. I know you do the best job you can and provide a safe and happy home for my feet. I really appreciate what you've done over the months that we've known each other, truly.

But then you started leaking. Really, shoes, that was most ungentlemanly of you. The clumps on the end of my legs that I refer to as 'feet' are not particularly fastidious, as a rule, but they don't particularly appreciate a moist climate.

And of late, shoes, I have noted various biological odours emanating from within your warm and spacious caverns. This is something that my feet are most picky about. At the beginning of each working day, they do not look forward to the prospect of probing into your nether regions, especially when said nether regions have become a haven for a whole host of other organisms. Let's be reasonable about this. Imagine if, at some point in the future, one of my feet were to invite a particular lady foot home for dinner and a spot of "the delicious act": how would she react to such an environment.

We've been through a lot, shoes, you and I. Mud puddles, for instance. Walks from Brunswick through to Coburg and Fitzroy. Streets and parks in both Newcastle and Melbourne. But I'm afraid we're going to have to part ways. I have found a more capacious home for my feet, and I'm afraid we're going to be moving there at the first opportunity. From now on, you will be employed in the more informal capacity of mantlepiece sculpture or flowerpot.

I'm sorry, shoes. It's not that I don't like you, it's just that I ... I mean, you ... I mean ...

Oh God, I'M JUST SO SORRY!!!!