I was bolting through Cornmarket on my way to the bus when a woman in a long robe asked me if I’d like my shoes shined for free. I was running late so I muttered a quick ‘no thanks, gottagettabus’ as I marched past and thought she was a bit weird.
Karma intervened (see, all gods ARE the one god) and I missed the bus.
So with 15 minutes to kill till the next one, I wandered back into the river of thronging pedestrians. There, outside the church of St Michael at the North Gate (the oldest one in Oxford, apparently) were the parish priesthood in their full frock coats, merrily shining shoes. They explained, as I took a seat and proffered my trusty, dusty Combat boots (it was dress-down day at work) that they'd figured that shining shoes would be far more acceptable to Oxonians - and more sanitary - than washing feet.
I'm not sure what was more impressive, the mirror sheen on my boots, or the fact that at least 3 people at work, when I said "a priest shined my shoes this morning", replied: "Oh like Maundy Thursday, where Christ washed the feet of the disciples before the last supper. Cool."
No, really.
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