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.