“Thief Shoes!” my husband exclaims, when I pull out my new sneakers.
I look at him confused.
“Did you not know?” he says, aghast. “All the burglars in London used to wear Reeboks because they don’t ‘squeak!’
I had a pair of squeaking shoes very recently, or should I say—’creaking’ shoes. I didn’t realize they creaked though until I left the house—
Through the office you could hear me coming (and going). All day long I echoed through the corridors as I walked—the sound was inescapable, following me like an old creaking farm yard door—open then closed, open, close, open—but the faster I walked, the higher the pitch; churning into a fast-paced screech: in my mind I can see two cars crashing with an horrific ending. I want my shoes to explode (and me along with them!).
I suffered that day, along with everyone else around me. I was afraid to stand up. Creak. Afraid to sit down. Creeeaaaak.
I’d rather have my thief shoes any day! As for the ‘creaky’ shoes, they were promptly discarded after their first and only outing.
“It always pays to tread carefully.”