Cobbled in Jerusalem
Your shoes will never wear.
In fact with so much use of them
You’ll have them still whene’er
The time is come to meet your God;
Then at that Pearly Gate
St Pete will say, “You’re so well shod!
“Come in – no need to wait!”

Mrs SG and I are in Jerusalem, and yesterday we went into the walled city to poke around, buy some gifts and find a cobbler: a heel had fallen off one of my shoes and I couldn’t find it. At the Jaffa Gate we were accosted by a personable young guide, whom we didn’t hire but who showed us on a map where we could find a sandler who might perhaps cobble on the side.

We found the man – an old, old man – in Jewish Quarter Road, occupying an alcove packed with shoes and boots and a heavy-duty sewing machine. I showed my shoe and he said, “Come back in an hour.”

We did and the shoe was heeled. He’d added a bit of rubber to the other one too, to make them almost the same height. The work was functional rather than elegant, and looked robust. “How much?” I said. He indicated that it was up to me. I made the mistake of saying, “No, no, tell me how much I owe you,” to which he replied, “Fifty shekels.” That’s about US$14. My eyebrows lifted, my eyes widened and my blood ran cold, but what could I do?

Therefore I choose to believe that Jerusalem’s spiritual richness will imbue my shoes with supernatural longevity.