‘Bold in Ballerinas’. Yes, Cinders you shall go to the ball.
The everyday has such stories to tell if only we walk slowly and take the time to notice the little things that might show us a bigger picture. Of course, with my knees I have little choice (a blessing), but I see so many people rushing when they really could take their time, with a tut on their lips as they avoid and pass my snail like pace. Sometimes it feels like their whirlwind is trying to suck me in and drive me along to the march of their drum. Well, I’m past all that – I really can’t and won’t be told what to do; no matter how hard they hit the snare.
Plod on, plod on, my own pace, and if not to a drum then at least to the beat of my old heart keeping me in time with the music around me.
That shoe though.
That bold ballerina shoe with the black and silver bow buckle (size 3) discarded upon the pavement not five-hundred yards from my house. The shoe that even I, slowcoach and all, almost failed to miss as it lay on the pavement by the concrete wall surrounded by the last of the damp autumn leaves.
Just who did it belong to and how did they come to lose it?
Well, it is panto season and it’s always behind you so I don’t turn around - my mind immediately drawn to Cinderella rushing from the ball on the stroke of midnight, Beauty fighting off the Beast and Rumpelstiltskin stamping his way to Hell. But this was no glass slipper and, as far as I am aware anyway, Prince Charming doesn’t live on my road in his castle.
The Little Match Girl, The Snow Queen, Hansel and Gretel, Red Riding Hood - and the WOLF…
All the old winter tales come tumbling into my head and in a moment I am swept up by snow geese and carried away to the ice palace to play with the shards of a broken mirror like some old bloated Kay with a splinter in his heart.
Just a shoe that’s all. An old shoe probably dropped by the bin men as they heaved the rubbish bins to the waiting lorry. Just an old ‘Bold in Ballerinas’, size 3.
That splinter hurts.