Jesus has heeled my boots!

Jesus has heeled my boots!
I spotted the local cobbler while meandering through Mercado 28.

I was in two minds but I hadn’t had time to get my boots heeled before leaving Hull, and like any good market trader Jesus spotted my hesitation as an opportunity, and invited me into his workshop. Feeling vaguely honoured I ventured into Jesus’s inner sanctum. He was clearly a busy man; so busy he hadn’t had time to clean up in years. The floor was filthy – conveniently matching the walls and the furniture. Scraps of material / leather / rubber littered every surface that wasn’t covered in shoes. Nice shiny shoes, shoes desperately in need of serious repair, and shoes in every imaginable intermediate condition. I suspect Jesus has a sideline in re-manufacturing shoes abandoned by their original owners. I want to ask him, but I think I lack the linguistic agility I need.
We haggle briefly, and a price is agreed. Jesus points me to a chair and for my benefit redirects one of the big floor-standing fans that are obviously covering for the broken air conditioner.
Watching Jesus at work is fascinating. Having ripped the heels off my boots he reaches for the sheet of thick rubber he showed me earlier, and carves off a chunk with what looks more like a scalpel than a knife. He dips his fingers in an open jar of what must be contact adhesive and spreads it liberally on boots and repair material.
Conveniently, at this moment an important looking man with an even more important looking folder in his hands appears. The conversation must have been just long enough for the adhesive to dry; big lump of rubber is slapped on one heel and the excess carved off and slapped on t’other. It looks slapdash. But a few deft strokes of the scalpel and a couple of minutes on the machine in the corner, and my boots are as good as new.
Jesus has heeled my boots; amen.

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