Today (well, a while ago), I decided that I want to start. Not many aspects, which are now almost total in December and after a year-end has nothing to propose, but in one: I want to return to this blog. Yes, again. Yes, I know that my wishes last less than an input of the killers in tick tack ticket, but if one throws in the towel, and, without trying ...
Also, what the hell! I have said enough is enough of wasting time, to pass my time and a half or two hours of real life that I have each day after the endless hours of work watching TV because I can not help but basically it is already good die with envy watching the blog grow Walker. Again I
, because I'm reading to one week, and I hate to his perseverance, discipline, and their posts, every day is better.
Also, I am obliged. First because it is the only way to keep in touch with him, because although I have not written my emails, but I gave my two phone numbers (and call from the fixed leaves you free) does not call me, but know where I live does not come to see me and know my address but not send me letters. Not even to congratulate me on my thirty-sixth (what happens, do not say I have my studies and thirty-six) birthday, which was day 14.
But he loses, because if I try I could have brought things to the last post on St. Crispin, the patron saint of shoemakers. We could have talked to my uncle Julian, who is 89 years old and still in office, and it is not only putting the soles, but that makes shoes. My uncle Julian has a very small shop, which came every year when we went to The Pola to buy and see the family who lived there. And are being less than the 13 brothers of my mother, but there is Julian's uncle, in his small workshop, where there was only a very small table, and everything had a layer of dust as four inches, made of rubber remains the Phillies or tapas. At the sides, dozens of shoes mixed, some with the appearance of having been neglected by his owner. Boots with leather pumps, wearing clogs to boots, sandals with stilettos ... and upon entering, two half-naked ladies watching from two calendars.
Yet Julian's uncle has never had the look of an old green look the ladies. It is very often silent, a little olive skin, the branch of the "mayors" brown, not the blanquita skin, eyes little ones, like my mother, but very clearly green.
When I went there, smelled of rubber and glue, and Uncle Julian was watching you from below, with goggles attached to the tip of the nose, hands full of glue for shoes and hand the blade so thin and long with which cut off the excess of heels repaired almost jogging through the streets paved in town. Now long ago I do not see in the shop, because it just goes a ratillo each day (for fun), but I always remember my mother's phrase Every time I went, "Julian, what pig you are, if the pains came in here would give something." Was his wife Dolores, a beautiful Andalusian guess I had misplaced all those dry Castilian my mother's family (starting with my mother) and that gives me that they dislike. The legend said that if you went home you had to walk on chamois, not to stain the floor. If that legend is true, the pains would have given something, no doubt. But I liked it. My mother spoke with him and I, meanwhile, with a finger, he traced a line between that layer of rubber dust and debris several inches, as opening a road. Sometimes I approached and blew gently and saw everything that was under so much dirt.
Julian Maybe the guy was not very clean in the care of his shop, but I remember I saw him deliver the shoes and also perfectly groomed, clean and shiny like patent leather. And it is a generous man. Did not care to teach my father a little trade and thus for years, and as we lived many miles from Uncle Julian, we have arranged for all shoes (even if used to crush my mother and my sister about how bad tread), in addition, where now you find it in La Pola, always want you to take with him wine, and always wants to pay, while I question forever "And if you work on TV, why do not you see?"
And Uncle Julian has a rich history over, but I do not remember well because you told him it was my sister, but I know Uncle Julian of very young handing the mail (or something telegraph) with a bicycle and bicycle that almost cost him his life during the war. You were sentenced to death but eventually commuted the prison.
I've never asked if he prayed to St. Crispin, but I get that it was more of the prints of naked ladies of the saints.
That and more could have told the passer, with which many I have sometimes spoken of shoes, street soccer, loves, our parents old people, life ... but now seems to only talk to those who have a blog on exercise. " Well here I am again, at least to congratulate me on my thirty-sixth birthday, even to bug me with the results of Madrid.
In this photo, made in Turo Parc in May, only sees me, but guess this man beside me is the Walker, he does not want out in the photos because he fears that steal the soul. Just do not call because he fears that steals your voice, who knows, it is an older man, and old begin to have hobbies.
So here I am, starting over, and it really, because a change of location of the files, all those posts I've been leaving half to finish them later, have vanished like dust and rubber debris blowing in the workshop when Uncle Julian. Before yesterday
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