I took my battle-worn soccer boot to a cobbler for needful structural refurbishments.
While there, seated and lost in watching the cobbler's calloused hands weaving tough thread through tough leather, along came a lady with a pastic bag full of shiny six-inch stilletoes - all with broken heels. She hands them to the cobbler one by one.
The cobbler patiently examines each of her high-heeled shoes, tapping their broken heels against each other, creating a hollow plastic percussion.
Then he looked in her eyes and said sombrely, "Just take these ones to a metal welder."
I almost choked to death stifling my own laughter as he handed them back.
While there, seated and lost in watching the cobbler's calloused hands weaving tough thread through tough leather, along came a lady with a pastic bag full of shiny six-inch stilletoes - all with broken heels. She hands them to the cobbler one by one.
The cobbler patiently examines each of her high-heeled shoes, tapping their broken heels against each other, creating a hollow plastic percussion.
Then he looked in her eyes and said sombrely, "Just take these ones to a metal welder."
I almost choked to death stifling my own laughter as he handed them back.
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