About twenty years ago myself and some mates befriended Barry, a retired Hells Angel in our local pub. Lovely old guy, not as many fingers as most of us would like, but plenty of tall stories to tell, some of them ended with the loss of a finger. Anyway we’d just chat with him if he was around the bar, we didn’t have him around for dinner or anything.
One Christmas there was a knock at the door and it was Barry with little giftwrapped presents for us all – they were hand knitted moccasin slippers, each knitted frugally out of a bewildering variety of left over bits of yarn, and with improbably large pompoms on the toes. They each came with a card from Barry’s mum (who we’d never met or even heard of) who’d knitted them to thank us each personally for being so nice to her Barry.
Even though they were way too small for my size 12 feet (they’d ping off quite comically if tried to go down the stairs too quick) I wore them for the best part of 10 years.