Bowling Shoes.

My face says it all. Wearing a tortured grimace, like that of a small child sitting aghast in their own wee, until their mother flies to the rescue with wet wipes and clean pants. God bless our mothers. But where are the wet wipes now? As I surf another man's sweat with my toes? Going commando in bowling shoes has got to be up there with soiling oneself. To make matters worse, I'd not worn socks today either and can feel the sticky, second-hand vinyl shoe roofing digging into me. Ah, my poor feet, crying out for a sock or a foot spa, even those awful verruca foot bags would have been better. Well, it was like a foot bag wasn't it? Like your foot with the wart was the freak of the Tudor village, the white witch come to scare the chickens away, so you had to bag the devil and turn it out. Then everyone could tell who the village curse was; "he with the latex verruca sock bag over his foot, turn him out, turn him out!"
I wish my soles in these bowling shoes would get shunned. I think I can actually feel the remnants of dead skin against my heel, or possibly bits of crisp. It's my turn to bowl, as I raise my joints and shuffle towards the waxen chosen lane, I notice a group of nuns a few lanes down. At first I think this rather an amusing, eccentric sighting. Then I look over to who must be the Mother Superior, judging by her veil sizing; casting my eyes down to her feet I see she has her own brand of footwear, nothing like mine or the rest of my team's, they've not even been hired here by the looks of them. My mind darts back and forth with questions as to 'how?'
Here I am, risking impetigo in these borrowed bowling hooves. As I grab my boulder of a ball and trot with regretful toes to face the skittles, I look down at my shoes before throwing a swift, envious glance in the sister's direction and back cometh the grimace and the conclusion:
that is one smug nun.