Funeral Shoes

Dad's shoes by Nicholas Stevenson

Thankfully I don't get invited to many funerals; less than one a year in fact, so I haven't invested in a decent set of gear.

I have a charcoal grey, lightweight, Rohan suit that I bought for work nearly 15 years ago, but the trousers don't fit, so I "match" them to a new pair of black jeans from Land's End.

I'm well-off for shirts; there's a grey one and a white one (although I can't find the white one.)

Of course I've got a black tie that I keep in the pocket of the suit, but I can't guarantee that there's no food stains on it. The pockets also contain old orders-of-service and maps showing the directions to various crematoriums and churches.

"Black socks?" "Will grey do?"

Pride of place goes to my proper, shiny, black funeral shoes that never need polishing because I only wear them to funerals. I can't remember when I bought them, but, when I got them out last week they still looked brand new.

I went through my check-list the night before and laid everything out for an early start.

Three of us travelled to Roy's funeral together. We used the sat-nav system in my colleague's car and we arrived in Luton just about 20 minutes early. As I climbed out of her car, my colleague remarked about the state of my shoes. I was a bit offended as they are the smartest ones I have, but a quick downward glance revealed that all was not well in the footwear department. It looked like a large rat had been chewing on the rubber heels. Don't you just hate it when they do that? How could I not have noticed?

If we had been travelling in my car (known as "The Chip Van") I would have had a pair of green wellies along that might have added a touch of gentrified, rural panache to the jeans and jacket, but we didn't even have flip-flops in the trunk. I was going to have to brazen it out.

The problem was not rats, nor was it just the heels. The entire soles of my shoes were crumbling away with every step and I was leaving a black powdery trail behind me, interspersed with quite big lumps of rubber. I drew this to people's attention before they spotted it for themselves and this led to some inappropriate mirth outside the Chapel of Rest. My friend was mortified. (Is that the right word in these circumstances?)

After the service I hobbled back to the car park leaving a trail of burnt rubber behind me. This probably freaked out the staff at the crematorium who must have thought that one of their clients had done a runner!

I was going to photograph my old shoes being buried with an RIP ticket, but Hanna (rather unsentimentally, I thought) sent them to the big shoe shop in the sky before I could get to them. I asked my son Nicholas to illustrate them instead, which is much better. I must get him to illustrate all my blogs in future!