User

I know I’m one of a string, not the first, not the last, just the present. I know you silently compare me to my predecessors, unfavourably. I’m trying to mould to you, to fit but I’ll never be quite flexible enough.

We both tried. You were making an effort when you bought those expensive in-soles. I took your fluctuating weight in my stride. We both know I cost too much for you to discard me but it would be so much kinder to charity shop me for someone with less fussy feet, who wouldn’t always put me on with a quiet sigh. Who’d shine me on Sundays.

You were in love with your last ones and those before them, were distraught when their souls escaped your heavy trudging. With me you are making do. You think I’m not the right shape, well maybe I’m fine and you’ve just got weird feet. Your bloody feet; over-sensitive, under-arched, skinnying-away, bony, corpsy feet. Why don’t you have done with it and go barefoot?

Serves you right for buying me online, not even trying me on for size, like a mail-order bride, never quite like the photo. Just because I was the same make as your previous pairs, I’ve got my own personality and we, at the end of the day, are incompatible.

You’re making do but have you ever thought about me? I’m trapped, no escape. Long suffering, with you thrusting your horrible socked feet into me every day. Heavy-hearted, heavy-footed. God, I can’t wait to wear out.