In America, my dad
bought four pairs of shoes – two for himself and two for my mum.
He thought that would
be surpise souvenirs for her.
He was expecting to
see her big smile because he knew she wanted to have a pair of tennis shoes.
But, he didn’t know
her shoe size. What happened to him was that he bought the smallest ones.
“June, two pairs of
shoes for you,” he said and went on, hesitatingly: “Er … two for me as well.”
“Two pairs for me?
Why?”
“Mmm, they are
different – tennis shoes and jogging shoes.”
“Thank you! Er, well,
they look a bit small for me. I’m petite, but …”
“I didn’t know your
shoe size.”
“Hmmm, you should’ve
asked me by email or line.”
“Ah, I’ve never though
of it.”
So, well, to cut a
long story short, she loosened the shoestrings as much as possible, tried to
wear, and said: “Ah, not bad! It
should be alright. And, er, that blue pair, it’s good for cycling, I think. My
trainers are worn out. Look! I’ll throw them away.”
“I thought so.”
‘Good! That’s all
settled,’ I murmured.
