A trainer story

I was 52 and seven eighths years old when I found out that trainers on a telephone line didn’t mean someone had nicked someone’s shoes and lobbed them up there for a laugh.

I. Know.

For years I’ve driven through towns and cities, clocked a pair of trainers dangling off a wire and thought, well that’s odd behaviour. Who’s losing that many shoes? Who’s got that kind of arm strength? Why is this such a popular hobby? And what did their mums say when they got home bare foot and had to admit their trainers were now the property of BT.

I never dug any deeper. Just accepted it as one of life’s little mysteries, like why the washing machine eats socks or why you only remember the thing you meant to say in a meeting three hours later. And why the husband has three sh1t drawers in the house to keep the things he needs but can never find the very thing he needs without asking me.

Then last week I happened to mention it to a mate. She absolutely lost it. Could barely breathe at my stupidity of living in Salford and not knowing this fact. Looked at me like I’d just announced I’d discovered what a kettle does.

Apparently, and yes I am still processing this, trainers on a wire can signal that there’s a drug dealer on that street. A signal. A code. A whole thing that everyone else seems to know about.

Everyone except me.

Retired 90s raver although give me a kitchen disco anyday and I’ll give Victoria Beckham a dance off )if my HRT has kicked in and there’s a promise of prosecco).

I thought was reasonably streetwise. Turns out I’ve been driving past signs my entire adult life without having a clue what I was looking at. Turns out my raving years could have been a lot more murky had I known this fact.

I saw the thing. I just didn’t understand the meaning of the thing.

And it got me thunking about what else we’re all missing. The quiet signals. The patterns. The stuff that’s right in front of us but we’ve normalised, dismissed or misread because we’re viewing it through our own very specific lens.

Sometimes the magic move is simply looking up. Being curious. Admitting you might not know what you think you know.

And having a mate in your corner who will mercilessly extract the Michael when you reveal such jaw dropping naivety.

That combo. Curiosity and good people. It saves you a lot of wrong conclusions. And occasionally reminds you that no matter how grown up you are, there’s always something obvious you’ve completely missed.

But I’m also thunking what happens when you drive down said trainer signposted street looking for your stash. Do you then have to knock on each door politely enquiring if there is a a drug dealer inside to furnish your needs. And do different trainer makes signal different supplies?

Signed:

Ever curious from Salford.