That old boot

I recently had a disagreement with a man over that do or die issue of parking. The problem was that I had parked outside his house and he felt only he should park there. It was the first time I had parked here and was standing across the road for the entire 34 minutes. We exchanged views for about ten minutes and we seemed to be totally incapable of seeing the other side of the argument. He reminded me of an old boot I once had.
I was about fourteen and rather sweet on Katrina, a Canadian girl from my old junior school and I wanted to ask her out. I got the chocolates (Milk Tray) and my mum had just bought me a top from a rather good jumble sale so I was almost ready to knock on her door. I just needed a pair of shoes and had to resort to raiding my dad's wardrobe where the Christmas presents were usually stored. Unfortunately there was no excitement here, just an old pair of winkle picker boots, two sizes too big with the leather sole hanging off. Ever inventive, I rushed up to Mr Williams, the cobbler in Upland Road and asked him to stitch the sole. I only had to wait two days and my boots would be wearable and Katrina would be mine. When I went to pick them up Mr Williams was angry. I mean really angry. In fact he was puffing. 'I broke three needles on that' he said, pointing to the boot which now to my eyes was looking rather like I felt, a deflated balloon. He seemed to go on forever and only after this tirade did he thrust out his hand and demand 50pence (probably less than one needle cost). I didn't understand why this was my fault and asked my mum about it. After telling me not to worry, she struggled to finish off her sentence. 'Well', she added, 'he's got a child who's a bit...a bit..well funny'. It seemed that Mr Williams was not the only one who struggled to communicate. It was strange considering our family had it's share of physical and mental disability. Mum seemed unable to say 'Downs syndrome' and once again I was trying to interpret what someone was saying but having great difficulty.
This had been a difficult week but at least Katrina would be mine. I knocked on her door and we talked a bit. I offered her the chocolates which she accepted and closed the door on me. Maybe she saw the poor stitching on my over-sized boots and thought better of it. Whatever the reason, she didn't fail to communicate her feelings. So long and thanks for the chocolates. I never saw her again.
Even Jesus' communication techniques seem a little obscure with parables that people are incapable of understanding. But with important issues like parking you'd have thought the Lord might have made a concession. It seems these too need to be shrouded in the mystery of God.