My Dad is sitting on the edge of the sofa. Hes in full evening attire: a black linen suit, a crisp white dress shirt, puce socks and velvet slippers embroidered with golden fox heads. On the floor lie yesterdays papers and on yesterdays papers lie his polishing paraphernalia.
A fat, square brush shouts Off in thick marker, a thinner one meekly proclaims On and its oily black bristles concur. Around the brushes are rags in varying conditions and theres a smell of feet and a spike of petrol-y polish. Dads deep in concentration, hes biting his lip and one hands shoved in an oxblood boot whilst the other brushes its toe with vigour, stopping now and again to apply a thick slick of deep red lacquer.
Im watching him from the doorway, small for my nine years, spindly and excitable. I creep over. Dad, what do you think of men who wear grey shoes with Velcro straps? His brow creases and a look of incredulous confusion ensues. No matter how many times I ask this question his reactions always the same. Its as though hes witnessing the offending vision and refusing to absorb its vulgarity. Well its just not right. Its the answer I want. I love my Dads predictability.
His innate, whole and uncompromising pleasure gained from the vast shoe collection, housed in three bespoke cupboards upstairs, is as much part of him as the few strands of hair he has left.
There are the ski boots from 1900, heavy and square toed with odd protruding heels where the skis once sat. Mum objects to those. There are the riding boots, Chelsea boots, square-toe boots in suede, leather and patent, brogues and loafers of every description from Loake, Trickers and John Lobb. Soft caramel, blood red, tawny brown and always, always sparkling black.
Each pair has a story: The lady in the charity shop refused to believe theyd fit, said shed had a man in tears because his feet were too fat. I slipped them on and snapped em up. Or: Remember when we missed the plane because Dad was driving around Madrid trying to find cow-hide espadrilles?
His shoe fixation could be traced to his own father, an army officer, who left one day when he was three and never came back. Mum likes to muse that its one of the things he remembers about his own dad: polishing his boots. Not that Dad would ever say that- in fact hes never mentioned his father. When a letter arrived from a lady claiming to be his sister, he silently threw it in the bin.
I think he just loves shoes, like he loves The Archers, cassoulet in a can, or me. Needless to say Ive inherited his obsession and now, newly single, shoes are one of the first places I look. Nice face, good beard Oh my god, WTF? Campers?
I once had a relationship with a man who committed the cardinal sin of wearing winkle pickers. He turned out to be a bad egg. Dads words rang in my ears: You cant trust a man with the wrong shoes.
And in a sludgy grey world shoes are as comfortingly simple as right and wrong. On my way to work I gaze out of the 149 bus window. The sea of city girls in slouchy boots makes me feel sick. Modern life is dishearteningly slobbish. When did we throw aesthetics to the dogs for something as overrated and lazy as comfort?
Its worth a bit of pain for a beautiful pair of Charlotte Olympia shoes. Everything of any value hurts and is hard to achieve. Beauty is no different.
So Ill let Dad answer the question Do you really need another pair of shoes?
He called me last week from Lewes Antiques Fair Ive seen a pair of Womens Trickers, Chelsea boots, size 4. You want them?
Do I need them Dad? I said.
What? he shouted. What the hell do you mean need? OK, Im ignoring you
I got a text five minutes later. It said: Theyre yours.
