Having reached that easily exhausted age where my "rhythm of the night" is the same tempo as my rhythm of the day, best described as a sort of awkward Bossa-Nova, I put my dancing shoes away and seek more comfortable, arch-supported footwear, provided it has waxed and rounded braided laces and not the dreaded flat athletic style.
And I would never ever, ever consider wearing sandals. God forbid my standards should fall so low despite the advancing years. The only excuse for a man wearing sandals, and it's a poor one at that, is when staggering somnambulantly around a hospital ward after being bed-ridden for at least six months. Or, and this excuse is also fairly thin, you are dining unexpectedly at a sushi restaurant and do not wish to appear rude.
The rhythm of men's sandals is a sound unsuitable for either day or night or any time at all for that matter. It is the unedifying rhythm of a single gong clang followed by an embarrassed silence; a rhythm that you cannot even tap your foot to; a rhythm that inspires nothing but immobility. In fact, a man wearing sandals does not deserve to possess feet at all.
I'm not quite sure how I arrived at such a draconian judgment in three short paragraphs. One minute I am merely bidding farewell to painting the town red and the next I am advocating guillotining the legs. Forget all that nonsense about awkward Bossa-Nova, I guess the goose step is really the perfect interpretation of the rhythm of my night: a blood-soaked moon illuminating a demented old man, albeit a demented old man in very presentable shoes.
