The slipper is an item of clothing, like that of a medieval chastity belt, which can bring pleasure or pain.

One of my favourite shoes, bought at Clark’s in Tooting in the early ‘60s, was a pair of slippers; not only with Noddy’s head on each foot, but also sporting a bell.

As an adolescent, you’d not admit you wore slippers in case a prospective girl friend asked who was on them – answering Willy Wombat didn’t necessarily lead to a successful courtship.

One particular slipper at my secondary school took on a very sadistic form; the geography teacher would employ it should you get signs on an O/S map wrong; failed to draw an acceptably accurate ox-bow lake or forgot a south American capital city.

I played five-a-side once with a Geordie friend of mine, after the invitation to play he asked, “Shall I bring my slippers?”  My instant reaction to this Tyneside approach to football, not knowing he meant his trainers, was, if I wore my slippers, they’d likely slip off; also, the bells would be in danger the moment I made contact with the ball.  Top half Gerd Müller, bottom half, Noddy – not a good look or feel.

I’ve never owned a dog as they savage slippers like they do tins of Winalot and most likely would take half my foot off – fine if you want to be the next Fred Titmus. 

I’m now at that age where slippers are essential footwear.  And, as I sit, wearing them by the fireside, re-reading my Noddy books, I’d have a pipe on, only I’d look like one of the women who hung around the foot of the Guillotine; although many would have had more teeth.