I polish my work boots with my ex-boyfriend's sock. My mum bought me the boots for Christmas as I was still grovelling about in my beige suede ones, which were filthy, and totally inappropriate for my job.
The black boots are my first pair of everyday heels - I do have some other non-flat shoes, but they kind of hang out under my bed, comparing dustballs, killing themselves laughing as they swap stories about how much I paid for them and that time I tried to wear them out.
So I'm very proud of my black boots. Proud that I can walk in them (they're not very high), proud that I look something near grown-up in them (which is probably a good job as I am 30 next year), and proud that I am wearing them to work to do the job that I always wanted to do.
That's why I bought a tin of old-fashioned black Kiwi boot polish, so I can look after them properly. Plus the twisty bit you turn to pop the lid off and the smell of the polish reminds me of being little and cleaning my school shoes. I wasn't really all that keen on school, but I seem to remember quite liking the shoe polishing part.
We used an old duster to rub the polish in when I was a kid, but I only have one duster, and a trillion pairs of knickers that do not, and will not ever, get worn again. When I bought the polish, I decided knickers would do just as well, and was rummaging about in drawer of drawers to find the sacrificial pair, when I came across a big, black, terry towelling sock.
I don't think there could be anything better for me to clean my work boots with that this sock. I didn't know that I had it, but I did know straight away that it belonged to my ex, let's call him Dom (hi Dom!). Dom and I dated for almost three months last summer. The reason I knew it was his sock is that I was with him when he bought them. They were from Marks & Spencer, it was hot, and apparently, they possessed some kind of magical technology that could keep feet fresh. Amazing!
And the reason I remember them so well is I was unemployed last summer, and staying at Dom's a lot. The man lives like a student: piles of clean washing twisted up with dirty washing, drying glasses of spicy tomato juice, pizza boxes, wet towels, CDs, and empty coke bottles dotted randomly about the dusty wooden floor, the scratched kitchen surfaces, the cooker top, in the book case, the bathroom shelf and in the high-walled, decked garden with its rotting garden table and dead, dry plants.
While we were dating, we partied a lot, as did all our friends, mainly in Dom's flat, which didn't help with the mess. Dom likes nothing more than a cycle of fun and guilt, so when he got a new job and started walloping himself about the head with a steak hammer of self-loathing for not being posh enough or something, I thought I would tidy that flat the f*ck right up.
I spent two whole days hunting down and washing every last muthaf*cking fabric-based item in his flat - even the tea towels, the mildewed bathmat and the piss-soaked toilet rug. While the washing machine chugged, gurgled, and leaked on the floor, I dug out the dried-up glasses, the old magazines, and dirty plates. While the tumble drier steamed up the July-hot flat, I plunged my hands into sinkful after sinkful of hot, clunking washing up. While the strange, tiny dishwasher finished off the sticky brown circles in the big coffee cups, I sprayed, scrubbed, swept, and filled the flat with a haze of Jif, Cif, Mr Sheen, Windowlene, Flash, Glade, Fairy and Toilet Duck that tickled my nose and warmed the back of my throat.
As each load of clothes finished drying, I dragged them from the machine and folded them. I paired every single one of his many black socks. That's why I know which ones were from M&S - they had a distinctive blobble on the side, presumably for extracting and storing unpalitable unfreshness.
To be fair, he didn't ask me to do it, and he did buy me a pair of trousers to say thank you.
However, the reason I enjoy cleaning my work boots with Dom's sock is not because it recalls a balmy couplet of bleach-drenched summer days.
When we got together, we were friends. Three months later, I had no feelings for him what so ever. There were three reasons.
One
He knew I'd been hurt, and he buggered me about. Everyone knew it would only last for his standard three months except me.
Two
He laughed at the suggestion that I am a size ten and I bought size twelve clothes for months until I realised they were too big.
Three
He made me question my ability to write, whether I should go into writing at all, and made me start to think I was a fool for trying.
When the relationship ended, he managed to dump me in three ways.
One
First, he attempted to have a conversation on the phone, in which he agreed to wait a couple of weeks, then meet up and talk about it.
Two
After this, he told several of my friends that we had split up for good, resulting in me receiving a text from one of my best mates, right before the most important job interview of my life, saying she was so sorry to hear we'd broken up and was I OK.
Three
Next, I text him to see if we had indeed broken up, and found out that, yes, we had.
Luckily, me, the size eight top and the size ten skirt I was wearing bagged the writing job of my dreams, so I didn't shed too many tears over him and his wrong-way-round teeth. And as I hear tales of him lunging from three month relationship to three month relationship, I just smiled and click off to work in my shiny new boots.
