I was wondering when I was going to become involved. But on such occasions, turning a 'deaf un' was best, so she got my blank expression.

"Go and get them shoes will you, Ronnie?  And Malcolm's.  I'm ashamed to send you both to school, indeed I am."

"I'll throw something at you if you don't shut. They can walk bloody barefoot, or stay at home, for all I care.  Have you got money for a pint?"  thinking his threat would facilitate his own requirements.

"Oh!  Beer is it?  That's what's bothering you?"

(It was another emotional 'cat and mouse' game).

"No. Make a start on them and I'll give you a few shillin'. They can stay home until they're done. You should finish them by tomorrow night. I'll get extra leather. Alright, Alf?" she said, rounding off in a soft high voice, with a face like an angel to clinch their ritual, tidy like.

The following night, half the street knew that Alf Thomas was cobbling. First, the shoe-last that he kept complaining about was broke on the size he wanted to use most     a fact we all knew for at least ten years. Then, he would aerially boomerang the spare leather around the room, bouncing it off the walls each time he made a mistake, especially when he tried to do more with the leather than was possible, or because of its thickness, thinness, price, or quality.

I learned more from my ol' man's mistakes     of what not to do     than I would have done if he had taught me the correct way     as he always encountered every pitfall, and would even throw in a few originals of his own.