Kurrs' Digital Tapestry of Words

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So my boots started to fall apart. Like, seriously fall apart. The soles started falling clean off the bottom, with the nail-work showing making them appear like really dangerous looking crocodiles upon my feet. So, I figure it is time to get them fixed. They had been a gift from my parents some 9 years ago, and they offered to take them to a cobbler for me. I figure since the gift got almost a decade of wear (and a two year period in which I practically lived in the suckers, hence why knocking boots is still my favourite euphemism for sex) they wanted to try and stretch it into two. No complaints.

So my mom takes them into this cobbler, which I've dealt with before, who has a shop on 4th and Alma, above the Liquor store in that little strip-mall-like thing. He's a bit of a character, usually berating customers when you walk in.

Nonono, I already explained this to you. There is no way to lower the heel on those shoes, there's nothing to be done. I already told you this.

Scolding his customers like errant children, I do think the man is just awesome. He originally looked over the boots, hemming and hawing, and my mother asked him whether they could be fixed.

Leave them with me, come back tomorrow.

Come back tomorrow.

Came the firm reply, like a father to the daughter who didn't listen the first time. When she returns, he says it will be tricky but it can be done. A week or two later, my mother comes back in, to a new scolding.

You did not tell me the shoes were steel-toed. I broke a big needle on these shoes.

He then proceeds to show with his index and thumb just how large a needle. When pressed about how exactly he still managed to sew the sole onto the shoes, he puffs up like a man who honestly takes deep pride in his work and replies.

By hand.

Currently Listening: Gwen Stefani - Whatcha Waiting For (Orange Bounce Remix)