Shoe shopping ought to be a simple affair. A straightforward transaction. And yet, here I am, wrestling with what seems to be an impossible quest: finding a decent pair of shoes.
I have no desire for ostentation, no need for trendy embellishments or impractical flourishes. Just plain black leather, perhaps with a modest brogue pattern – nothing too fussy. A touch of elegance, understated but proper. These are work shoes, after all, not some gaudy statement piece. More than anything, though, they must feel right the moment I slip them on. A shoe must fit like a firm handshake – secure, reassuring, made to last.
Granted, my feet are a touch narrower than the average, but nothing that should pose an insurmountable problem. I am not clomping around on outlandish flippers, nor am I daintily tiptoeing on elfin extremities. I’m a nine on a good day, a ten if the manufacturer decides to be unpredictable. And while a leather sole isn’t strictly necessary, I do care about construction. Every new pair I buy goes straight to the cobbler for reinforcement – hard-wearing rubber soles and metal tips in the heels. Yes, I announce my arrival wherever I go, a rhythmic click-click on the pavement, as I always have.
But what monstrosities await me on the high street today? Shoes that curve skywards like a jester’s slippers, absurdly long and upturned, as if designed for men who dream of moonlighting as pixies. I see professionals striding about with their heels down, their toes lifted proudly in the air, forgetting the very concept of solid ground. Perhaps, I mused, these shoes had a hidden purpose – perfectly engineered for that first flick of a football in a game of ‘keepy-uppy.’ But alas, I have no interest in podiatric absurdities, nor do I have any desire to look like I belong in a Christmas display alongside wooden nutcrackers and dancing elves.
It’s no secret that I’ve never been a follower of fashion.
I just want shoes that fit, shoes that look decent, shoes that won’t make me appear like a clown attempting to conduct a funeral. Because really, could I bury someone while dressed in mourning attire and a pair of grotesque, bulbous monstrosities? The very thought is an insult to dignity itself.
Ah, but there was a time when shoe shopping was an entirely different ordeal…
The Lesson in Newcastle
I was never the easiest child when it came to shopping. Stubborn, particular – perhaps even a touch difficult for the sake of being difficult. It wasn’t that I was selfish, not really, but my mother had her own vision of what constituted ‘smart,’ and her vision rarely aligned with mine. With four other siblings to clothe, her purse strings were stretched thin, and practicality always trumped personal preference. Still, even as a child, I maintained that my objections weren’t about fashion. Some of the things she picked were just downright awful.
One Saturday afternoon in Newcastle, the battleground was school shoes. If I had tried on one pair, I had tried ten, each met with a dissatisfied shake of the head. But then – finally – salvation. A plain black pair with a proper lace-up bridge. Sturdy, comfortable, timeless. I slipped one on in the shop, admired it in the mirror, felt that satisfying snugness. The shop assistant performed the customary toe-pressing ritual and assured my mother that the shoes were a perfect fit – not too small, not too big, with plenty of growing room.
I had won. The shoes were mine. Now, let us depart at once! Or – if I knew my mother – we would now embark on the far less thrilling segment of the day: her own shopping. And unless she was willing to let me wear my new shoes immediately, she would find herself dragging behind her a most resentful and whining child for the remainder of the afternoon.
Mothers, you know this battle well.
I pleaded my case. Surely, I could wear them now? What harm could it do? Resistance was met, of course, but I was persistent, and eventually, seated in a café, she relented – with conditions. I was to take them off the moment we got home, and should I scuff or soil them in any way, I would be going to school wrapped in rags, shoeless, a Dickensian waif of my own making.
At last! Triumph! I yanked off my old shoes, eager to slip into my pristine new pair. A final protest ensued – I must tie them myself, despite my fumbling inexperience with laces. Oh, I was determined to be independent, to prove I was capable, despite the fact that my laces were, at best, a tangled mess of vague loops and hopeful tucks.
And so, victorious, I strode out into Newcastle, my new shoes gleaming in the sunlight.
By the time we reached home, I hated them.
The snugness had turned to suffocation. The comfort had become cruelty. They pinched at the ankle, rubbed mercilessly at my heel, and by the time we reached the front door, a small but potent blister had bloomed in protest.
It was then that I realised my mother’s swift surrender had not been surrender at all. She had let me win too easily. She had known all along.
She had watched, with the patience and wisdom of a seasoned strategist, as I fumbled with my laces – tucking them hastily down the side of my shoes rather than tying them properly. She had known, with absolute certainty, that I had put the shoes on the wrong feet.
Let a child tie his own laces, and he’ll trip for a day—let him put his shoes on the wrong feet, and he’ll learn humility for life.
Wording 