Dead in the Water

There's a bloke walks his dog on the quay, occasionally we meet, greet, and I have a minute with the dog. Beat up old boxer cross, Ralph by name, on his last legs. I've been away, got back a couple of days ago. This morning I fancied breakfast on the Pier, fuel up for a good long walk, nearly. Table next to me one of the regulars catches my eye, "You knew Mr. Holroyd, didn't you?" I didn't but it turns out he's dog bloke, and I get the news. His body was found washed up across the river, in the marina. 

Sad. Ralph died, and Mr. Holroyd decided it was time. A note was found on his kitchen table, "Sorry, I've had enough. Funeral paid for at . . ." He was a sick man, my neighbour tells me, and he missed his wife, she died in '94. He got Ralph not long after, and soon enough they became part of the scenery. Mr. Holroyd  was a cobbler, a proper old style shoe maker. Before retirement, he worked from home, on commissions from bespoke tailors, on special orders for the NHS, and on repairing the good shoes of discerning local gentry. I like a good shoe. I once had a pair made, loafers copied from an ad in Playboy. Oxblood, they were, and I wore them first with a dark blue Tonik suit on a Saturday night. Let me see, first we went to The Whiskey A Go Go in Wardour St., hooked up with our American friends from Lakenheath, bought 45s, then we had Chinese, later driving to the Cromwellian, ending up at a party in South Ken. They say if you remember the Sixties you weren't there. Sure, if you were mostly unconscious, you wouldn't remember.

My loafers lasted forever, soled and heeled, oh, half a dozen times until my middle age spread spread all the way down and they became a little tight. They disappeared in the move here from London. It's such a shame about Mr. Holroyd. I would have liked to have got to know him better, perhaps well enough to persuade him to make me a pair of good walking shoes.