My shoes, as we say round these parts, do well. Those Clarks GoreTex-ed Active Airs get me to work in all weathers and double up as footy boots for the odd kickabout. Yes, I had to apply the kitchen scissors and lop off part of the 6th studio album by the Beatles earlier this week. It's likely -- sob -- that this will be their last winter.

Bearing more and more of a resemblance to Trigger's broom, I've replaced the laces more than once. Had continued trouble finding a suitably strong pair, ones that could stand the earth, wind and fire. Correction: wind, rain and mud. They'd eventually snap, at which point I'd rethread them and bypass one of the eyelets. Happened again, until I was down to using three out of five holes with just enough lace to tie a knot. Each morning, I'd inwardly curse the upstanding elves of Northampton, resolve to buy some more, then forget all about it until the next day.

Cycling back through Ipswich central last week, I noticed that our shiny new Poundland (oh yeah), now occupying the dead Woolies' store, was still open at ten-to-six. They sell everything. They'll have whatever I want, including new Eddie Shoestrings. Waddya know, they didn't. Presumably not the demand, like Monty Python's cheese shop. Down the road, however, stood Wilkinson's, another fine Woolworth's wannabe. Yes, we're still open, said the helpful man. Yes, we sell laces. There you go.

Fine variety on offer, and less than a pound, too. Go for the boot laces for extra strength: 140cm should suffice. Felt good to scratch that itch, chuck away the old ragtag strings and weave in the new "round brown" 100% cottons. Quite a treat, I can assure you. All eyelets accounted for and, er, plenty of rope left over. Way too much. Far too long. Cobblers.