If It Can Happen, It Will Happen To Me
by Rosina Sargent, of Chalfont St Peter, Buckinghamshire

I got out of bed in my usual happy mood. It was Saturday.

I was going to the West End of London hoping to buy some very nice new shoes. I planned to have my lunch while there and then return to Wood Green in North London.

Wood Green was about a mile from where I was living in a flat on my own.

There was a good film which I wished to see at the Gaumont Cinema. I decided I would go to the matinee.

I wore the clothes I would be wearing with the new shoes I intended to buy. It would be easier I thought, to make my choice.

I left home all dressed up, and looking like Burlington Bertie from Bow. A classic beautifully made-to-measure tailored suit, a pure silk shirt, one of a quarter dozen tailored for me by Austin Reed, the very latest in the new style hats, a grey ladies trilby with a red and green mottled Tyrolean feather tucked into one side of the hat-band. This was finished off with a pair of deerskin gloves from Harrods.

In my younger years, I was very slender and taller and liked to think, when dressed, that I was the ultimate in "cat's whiskers".

I was pleased with the shoes I bought. They were very comfortable as well as smart, but even so, new shoes always feel nicer still after they have been worked for a short time, I always thought. I decided to wear them immediately.

After lunch I returned home, left my shopping and the other shoes I had worn indoors and carried on to the cinema.

Walking down the outside aisle, I found an empty seat also on the outside and settled down. As I did so, I noticed a man sitting in the seat behind me.

After a while, although the new shoes were comfortable, my feet were feeling a little too warm. I slipped the shoes off and pushed them under my seat.

Later, as the film was nearing its end, I fumbled in the darkness for my shoes. I could not feel them and not wishing to cause a disturbance, waited until the lights came on.

My shoes were not there. I crawled on my hands and knees as I searched under nearby seats. They could have got kicked along, I thought, but no, I could not find them.

The cinema was almost empty by now. An usher came to my aid as I was scrabbling about, but still no shoes.

People began crowding in for the first house of the evening performance. The usher agreed with me that I would have to sit through this film again and then have another search.

During the short interval, an usherette brought me a cup of tea and some biscuits.

At the end of this programme, the audience filed out to be followed quickly by a new audience for the second and last house. The cinema staff said they would search the cinema thoroughly prior to locking up for the night. I settled down to see this film for the third time round.

News soon spread around that I had lost my shoes. I could hear late-comers being told in whispers "that lady has lost her shoes".

With my usual stupidity, I began to see the funny side of this and sat giggling quietly to myself. I had not met Dora in those days, which was just as well. It would have been a riot.

Half way through the film, to my surprise, the picture suddenly vanished and was replaced with a large bold notice on the screen.

"A LADY HAS LOST HER SHOES - WILL YOU ALL PLEASE LOOK UNDER YOUR SEATS FOR THEM".

The lights came up and there was the rattle and clatter of tilting seats being raised and lowered. I couldn't feel embarrassed, I was laughing too much.

When the cinema closed down, a massive search took place but there was not a stray shoe anywhere. The man sitting behind me at the matinee must have seen me take them off and nicked them.

Now, the majority of the staff had gone home, the manager had gone, the offices were locked, there was no phone available so that I could ring for a taxi.

I walked out into the brightly-lit high street in my stockinged feet, I wished whole-heartedly that I was not so dressed up. A feather in my hat and no shoes on my feet did not go well together, I thought. I felt very conspicuous.

Each time a taxi loomed in sight, I stepped into the road to flag it down, but every one carried a passenger and I was passed by. I was not laughing now. I was too embarrassed.

Suddenly, I saw a policeman walking along the pavement. I ran to him as if he was my long lost husband and asked if he would find me a taxi. He looked down at my feet: "Where are your shoes?" he asked.

"They were nicked from under my seat in the cinema", I replied. He gave me a wry smile. I could see he wanted to laugh.

"Just stand there, I won't be a moment," he said and sauntered away.

Before I saw him again a police car drew up beside me. The two occupants laughed in my face in the most jovial and friendly manner.

"Jump in," they said as they held the door open.

I and my Tyrolean feather, stockinged feet, deerskin gloves, but minus my nice new shoes, were safely deposited on my doorstep.

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