I saw my old blue shoes in a different light. They lay as they were discarded; on the old-fashioned floral rug in front of the sofa. The light from the south facing window reached into them from a drizzly overcast sky, throwing the shadows to the right and slightly backwards towards the sofa. The pale blue shoes had lost their brightness through age and wear, changing to a dusky blue tinged with daily grime. They had become arthritic like old ladies’ feet, my feet, through constant wear. They were old now, almost worn out. And yet they sat there, poised of their own accord. Waiting on the mat. Waiting to dance the dance of the day. Perhaps the old lady should have been a ballerina.