There was an old woman
who lived in a shoe,
She had so many children
she didn't know what to do;
She gave them some broth
without any bread;
She whipped them all soundly
and put them to bed.
There once was an old woman, though perhaps she was not so old, and it was life-experience which drew channels across her brow, greyed her hair and hunched her back over. For the woman lived in harsh conditions. In fact, she lived in a shoe. And it wasn’t even a nice shoe; not a large, fleece-lined boot, nor one of the latest converse with the pictures printed on the sides. No, the old woman lived in a second-hand running shoe, with dirt engrained in the surface, and a greasy sweat-line on the inner walls, which gave the air a taste of stagnant lake-water. She’d had to plug up a hole in the toe-cap, with lint and sticky-tape, and the old shoe still wasn’t waterproof, so that when it rained, her feet went ‘schllllluup’,‘schllllluup’ as she walked across the floor. It was not a nice place to live. And to make matters worse, the woman was trying to support her exceptionally large family – seven children in all – and each child seemed to demand a larger slice of her pitiful burger-flipping wage than the last, until she barely had enough spare to put food on the table.
The eldest child had reached the end of compulsory education, but rather than enter the world of work to help his mother, he chose to study marine biology at university, and spent his days examining sand-worms under a microscope. And not once did he offer his mother a portion of his student loan. The younger children followed his selfish lead, and whensoever they stumbled upon a perfectly rounded stone, or a bat-shaped stick, none would allow their siblings to join their improvised games.
Of course, the woman did not complain, for she wanted the best for her offspring, but it filled her with sadness to see that she had raised such a selfish brood.
Every evening, the family sat around the table on the eight mismatched chairs, to a meagre supper of grey, watery broth. On Sundays, there was a thin slice of bread each, too. One evening, which was not a Sunday, the woman placed eight bowls around the table. It was hot, because having blocked up the hole in the toe, there is not much ventilation in an old, greasy shoe, and the woman was flustered from the effort of cooking.
“Dinner’s ready!” she called, and her eight children crashed greedily to the table.
The eldest, who had had a particularly rough day at university, looked down at his bowl, disgusted.
“Gruel, again? Why can’t we have something else to eat?”
“Yes, Mama, why can’t we?” hollered the little ones.
And the surly middle child, she threw down her spoon in protest, crying “I’m not eating that!”
Now, the old woman had, as you can imagine, had quite enough of her children’s demanding squawks and bawling, and I’m sorry to say that she lost her temper.
“Enough!” She shrieked, reaching for the nearest object, which happened to be the still-oily broth pan, and wielding it high above her head.
The children scarpered, for they saw the rabid look in their mother’s eyes, and they were scared, but in the confines of the shoe there was no escape, for even the hole had been blocked off, and inevitably she caught up with each of them, so that the dull ‘thwack’, ‘thwack’ ‘thwack’ing of seven long, hard beatings filled their humble home for quite some time before she sent each and every one of them to bed without their brothy supper, in the hopes that they’d be a little more grateful in the future.
