Lunch with my editor and other tragedies.

On this very cold and wet Melbourne day I trammed into town to meet with my new editor, the lovely Amy Thomas. We had a new book to discuss, one that I wrote ages ago.  (I confess I have reservations but will do my darnedest to make the book better).
On the way to Penguin headquarters near Southern Cross station, I passed some men who were cleaning some seriously disgusting graffiti from a wall. The rain started pelting down and a toxic slurry produced by their efforts ran over the footpath and into the gutter.  Only a fool would be stupid enough to tread in this slurry, and I avoided it . What I didn’t know was that I had merely avoided walking in the painty part, but there was apparently a corrosive acidy part, invisible to the naked eye. And my eyes were particularly naked today.
As I sat in the classy Penguin foyer I looked down and realized there was a row of footprints on the floor, leading directly to where I was sitting. What the hell was on my shoes? Stupidly, I thought I would avoid detection by moving to a different seat. All that happened was I made more footprints. Even a child of three would be able to follow the path and link the footprints to me. I was the person who had destroyed the trendy penguin foyer with my painty shoes. But this wasn’t paint. A cursory examination of my shoe heel confirmed there were no paint splotches, but that my rubber soles were in fact dissolving.
Amy Thomas arrived, pretended not to notice the vandalism I had committed on the foyer, and suggested lunch in the café at The Age building, which seemed a good idea, except for the problem with my shoes. I was hoping we might eat in. We both walked across the bridge to The Age building. The wind was bitter. The rain fell in sheets. And my shoes chose this moment to disintegrate completely. I had to explain to Amy why I was making faces like a man with his feet in ice water. The reason was abundantly clear. I lifted one of my shoes, but didn’t want it to look like I was checking for dogshit so I tried a more casual approach, ruined by the fact that the last bit of the heel on my left shoe fell off in a lump and revealed my dark blue explorer socks. I had been doubtful about my choice of sock. Blue with black? But the blue explorer socks had the very real enticement that they were clkean and dry. I also figured we wouldn’t be dining Japanese, so the chances of my editor seeing this blue/black fashion atrocity would be fairly slim. But Amy saw more of my blue socks than I would wish on anyone. It then occurred to me that anything strong enough to eat through rubber might also eat through sock and skin as well, so I found it difficult to pay close attention at our lunch. Amy must have heard about my attention deficit disorder because she had notes carefully typed out and there were even some pictures. All through the focaccias I was scared that my feet might be about to dissolve in industrial solvent. So I had to cut lunch short. Rather than have Amy believe that I am the worst dining companion ever in the history of midday prandial discourse,  I thought I should come clean about the shoes, She thought it was funny, which was a great error of judgment on her part. Not only were my toes suffering hypothermia but there was the very real possibility that my feet were about to go Dali on me.
I thought it best to take a cab home, even though the route 96 is just the best tramline in the world that practically takes me to my door.  But a tram had just left and the helpful electronic sign advised me that there wouldn’t be another for fifteen minutes. Could I wait that long? The acid might have reached my knees by then. So I decided to hang the expense and climb into a taxi. The driver thought I was being overly polite when I removed my shoes and he told me I only had to do that when I was entering a مسجد. I tried to explain about the lunch incident, and I’m pleased to say he didn’t laugh at all. Why should he? It isn’t funny. I think that he may have had limited language skills. Every time I mentioned a pub – that’s how we navigate in St Kilda – he seemed to think I was talking about a person. Who is The Prince of Wales? He does not sound like a productive man if he is always standing on the corner of Fitzroy Street and Acland Street.
I have just given my feet the Karen Silkwood shower. All toes intact, I’m pleased to report.The book we were supposed discussing at lunch is a romcom for teens where comedy is examined in detail. It can both destroy relarionships and build them. It also invites the reader to note that some things that may later seem comic were tragic at the time. For the moment, the book is called The Silence of Tigers, which is far too beautiful a title and will undoubtedly be changed.