A visit to the shoe shop is not enjoyable any more.
An assistant punces on you as you get in through the door.
“Can I help you Sir, and do you have a certain style in mind?
We have a sale on currently, let’s see what we can find.”

“If you’d like to come this way. That’s rights, and please take a seat.
I’ll use our new machine so we can measure your feet.
They can be different sizes you see. I know that does sound strange,
but it doesn’t really matter. Our shoes come in such a range.”

“Your right foot Sir. Yes, a perfect eight.
Now the left,” then she started to laugh.
“I hate to tell you the bad news Sir,
but this foot is a seven and a half.”

“No, I’m eights” I told the assistant, in something of a shock.
“Perhaps it’s just a problem with my brand-new woolly sock?”
So I quickly picked up both my shoes beside me on the floor,
put them on, then said my thanks and sped right out the door.

How would I live with this bad news, that for sixty years and two,
my poor foot on the left side had lived in the wrong size shoe?