Shocking Shoe Story

Any man who reads this will think it's a tall tale -- but the truth is stranger than fiction! Names have been changed to protect the guilty; his occupation has been withheld to protect our marriage. Please note that I've even attempted British spelling here, for versimilitude.

A middle-aged man in Scotland has recently made the shocking discovery that he owns more pairs of shoes than his wife.

"I have to say I’m stunned," said Mr Schumann. "Up until very recently I’ve nagged her about her shoe problem. You know how it is with women. They don’t just have a pair of trainers, a pair of wellies, and a pair of dress shoes, do they? It’s sandals and boots and high heels and low heels and every bloody colour and style – and some they only wear a dozen times a year! But then last week we had the builder in to repair the cracks in the conservatory roof. And we had to bring in all the shoes – every single pair." Mr Schumann shrugged and looked at the ground, obviously mortified. "And," he continued, begrudgingly, not meeting the reporter's eye, " it appears that I’ve got more."

Mr Schumann explained that in his line of work, decent shoes are an absolute necessity. He also maintained that his three pairs of sandals are useful in the one-week Scottish summer, given his current employment, and the five pairs of walking boots will come in handy some day should he ever go back to the healthy exercise regimen his wife so eagerly promotes. "The three pairs of slippers and house shoes and six pairs of trainers were all bought on special offer, so they hardly count," he argued, adding that he knew they would most likely come in handy some day, no matter what his wife’s opinion might be.

And he had no way of knowing that the eighteen pairs of high heels spanning every colour of the rainbow, the strap-back beaded fuschia kitten heels, purple Doc Martens, knee-high lemon yellow high-heeled boots, or the violet-and-green snakeskin pumps with ankle strap belonged to his teenaged daughters and not his frumpy middle-aged wife. "Come on," he laughed, "if you've seen one pair of ladies' shoes, you've seen them all!"

"Take my word for it: she’s as shoe-happy as they come," Mr Schumann insisted. "Even if she tells you she bought her last pair of decent shoes three years ago. And she’s hell bent on shopping, too. Right now she’s out window shopping at all the charity shops in Dumfries!’

Half Empty or Half Full?

I happen to be married to a devout pessimist. I'm not really an optimist myself, but next to him I look like one. In fact, just about anyone would.

The other day, our stove broke. The little catch that you depress to get the gas to release has been giving us trouble ever since we moved into this flat. Up until now, we've just gotten out the WD40 and applied it generously, but this time no amount of lubricating oil would make it work.

For three days, we made do with frozen pizzas and microwavable meals, but finally I couldn't bear it anymore, so I went to see if I could fix it. "You can't fix it" my husband said, depressing the catch. "See? It won't work." I had to give it a go, of course. He was right: you could get the little lever to go down, but it wouldn't stay down.

But when someone tells me that something cannot be fixed or is not worth pursuing, that only fires me up and makes me determined to prove them wrong. "I'll call the repairman," my husband sighed, "We'll just have to live on salads and microwaved stuff until he gets here." I agreed that we needed the repairman, but I still felt a short-term repair ought to be possible. My husband rolled his eyes. "Come on; you can see it doesn't work. Just give up!"

"What if we put something heavy on it," I said, "like a bottle? That'll do the trick." My husband shook his head. "Nothing will work," he muttered, "it's completely buggered." He sighed miserably. "We're going to need a new stove. And they're really expensive!" He couldn't bear watching me dicker about with it, so he marched out of the room to go and worry about our finances. Two minutes later I'd sorted it out: a full wine bottle propped up with a balled-up dish towel, and I was cooking with gas once again.

That isn't one isolated incident, either. Almost twenty years ago, when we were still unmarried, I saw an advertisement in the newspaper. Native English speakers literate in Japanese were wanted, preferably people with a good grasp of English grammar and semantics. A teaching background was a big plus. The salary, it was noted, was very good. This looked perfect for me and I showed my husband-to-be. He frowned. "They're probably one of those rip-off schools. And that business about the good salary is just to lure you in. Forget it."

I disagreed. Even if the payment wasn't great, the job sounded so ideal for me, I wanted to give it a shot. I applied for it and took a series of translation tests followed by an interview where I was told I had the job if I wanted it. When I showed my husband-to-be what my salary would be, he was astounded. "But that's more than I make!" I had that job for a dozen years and it really was perfect for me. To my husband's endless credit, he loves this story and is quick to tell it to friends. But he still hasn't learned his lesson.

"Hand me that bowl, would you?" I asked him just this afternoon. My husband stared at my colander full of sliced strawberries. "Those'll never fit in that bowl," he insisted. "You'll need one at least twice that big, and I don't think we have one that size!" I rolled my eyes at him and grabbed the bowl. In went the strawberries, filling the bowl exactly half-way.

Honestly, the look on his face.