Oh come on, people. It’s blindingly obvious that this “cobbler’s shop” is in reality a front for an international terrorist organization. The boots mistakenly got included in with a shipment of yellowcake from Niger being sent to North Korea. You know how hard it is to get stuff back from North Korea?
When you get those boots back, I’d run them past a Geiger counter if I were you.
Along these lines, it may be well to note that cultures with a strong craft tradition typically do not trifle with such niceties as customer retention. Traditional crafts require an individual with a lot of pride, and it’s not in the nature of a proud person to face his mistakes.
Your boots are half full of urine. Because there are no instructions on the heels, you’ll never get them back. Next time, buy the “manager” boots, which have the instructions printed on the heels.
I sent a pair of shoes for heel repair to a place in San Diego (because they were the authorized repair place for that brand). I had the idea that the place is located in San Diego so that they can take them across the border and repair them cheaply in Mexico, although I have no evidence aside from the location.
So perhaps your Eastern European cobbler sent the boots off to his home country for repair there? How does his shop look? Do you see any tools or any other sign that he repairs shoes on premises?
Variation on These Boots Were Made for Walking.
You keep saying you’ve got something for me.
something you call boots, but confess.
You’ve been messin’ where you shouldn’t have been a messin’
and now someone else is gettin’ all your boots.
These boots are made for walking, and that’s just what they’ll do
one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.
You keep lying, when you oughta be truthin’
and you keep losin’ when you oughta not bet.
You keep scamin’ when you oughta be changin’.
Now what’s right is right, but you ain’t been right yet.
These boots are made for walking, and that’s just what they’ll do
one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.
You keep playin’ where you shouldn’t be playin
and you keep thinkin’ that you´ll never get burnt.
Ha! I just found me a brand new red hot cobbler yeah
and what he know you ain’t had time to learn.
Are you ready boots? Start walkin’!
Har. This whole thing reminds me of a joke I heard on the radio the other day, told by Ronald Regan, who said it was told to him by a Soviet as an example of the sense of humor they have about their society:
Cars in the USSR are hard to come by. You must fill out extensive paperwork and pay $50,000. And still, after you have paid, you must wait ten years for your car to be delivered to you. So, a man goes to the car dealer, fills out his paperwork, and pays the $50,000.
“That’s all we need from you,” says the dealer, “your car will be delivered to you in ten years.”
“Morning or afternoon?” the man asks.
The dealer is puzzled. “It’s ten years away, why should it matter?”
The man replies, “The plumber is coming in the morning.”
Frankly, I’m a bit suspicious that this whole thing is a fabrication by the England Tourism Board or something, trying to convince us Americans that England is all small towns chock full of eccentric Python-esque characters performing various old-fashioned but charming trades like shoe repair and numerogically-based excuse fabrication.
I consider this to be unwise.
We’d probably wear out the heels on those shoes we still have, walking from the carpark to the shop and back seven times a week, with disastrous consequences for our rapidly diminishing shoe supplies.
If the cobbler sent the boots to his home country then it probably won’t be for repair. I bet there’s an underground boot trade that operates on the same lines as stolen cars. These gangs only steal the best vehicles - Mercedes, BMWs and the like - so the boots might have been stolen to order on the instructions of a Russian oligarch.
The shop isn’t part of a chain, and I’m fairly sure the owner is a sole trader. To be honest, it looks a bit down at heel, as if the owner is on his uppers.
I hope you gave him a severe tongue lashing.
I think you’re misunderstanding the situation.
It’s quite simple, really:
Take Chez Guevara’s boots.
???
Profit!
This cobbler’s isn’t owned by Zaphod Beeblebrox, is it? It sounds like it’d be a handy companion operation to his “second hand biro” business. 
If you weren’t paying in pounds and located in a city spelled with a number of unecessary and unpronounced letters, I might suspect we had the same cobbler. Or perhaps it is simply in the nature of cobblers to be East European.
I’m thinking you should look around your place for other items needing the attention of local tradesmen. Surely the lawn mower blade needs sharpening, windows washed, an old couch refurbished, anything.
I wait in eager anticipation of your report.
It is in the nature of people in the skilled clothing trades, these days anyway, to be from very poor countries and emigrate to richer ones. The skills take years to acquire, yet are not worth much in an era of mass-production throwaway apparel and shoes. If you’re in these trades, it’s usually because it’s a) in your family and b) all you have.
Precisely why he gave you a ticket for a free heel repair.
I’m definitely seeing this as more of a “cheese shop” variant:
Chez: My boots, perhaps?
Cobb: Ah! We have your boots, yessir.
Chez: You do! Excellent. Hand them over with all speed!
Cobb: Oooooooh!
Chez: What now?
Cobb: The cat’s eaten them.
Chez: Has he?
Cobb: She, sir…
Rubbish. The fella is from eastern europe so he clearly is a soldier for the russian mafia. Chez’s boots have become unwitting drug mules for high-priced drugs to the continent and are likely somewhere in france or italy by now.
Enjoying the story so far. I, too, hope the excuses don’t end soon. 
All well and good, and highly entertaining, but are there reliable cobblers in Britain?
I need to know as I am buying a home there, and won’t ship my old boots if I can’t get them repaired.
A fabulous tale, I look forward to it’s continuation, though no final conclusion is in sight. The whole thing makes me seriously consider damaging my boots and searching for a local cobbler…
just to see what happens…
If you get a pair of mules back, you’ve got someone else’s shoes by mistake.