I bought new shoes for the forthcoming nuptials. Brown lace ups from Sons of London, an online emporia of gentlemen’s shoddery. This was under instruction from the happy couple to ensure I am fully compliant with the tonal requirements of the big day.
They look nice, these shoes. All shiny and brown. Like a highly polished… Anyway, when I put them on they feel fine. Okay. Alright. But, you know, untried.
There is one month to go and I look at these two puppies and wonder what to do with them. I’ve not had many issues with breaking in new footwear, certainly not in the last thirty years. There’s a Tony Hancock sketch, where he joins the police force. He complains about the uniform but is especially scathing about the standard issue boots.
‘But they don’t bend!’ Our hero complains.
‘But your feet do. Now put them on.’
That’s pretty much been my lot. My feet accommodate shoes with the feeble minded sycophancy of the political researcher promised an internship.
But can I trust to history here? The shoes will go on at about 11am on the day and are unlikely to be allowed to go to their bed until over twelve hours later. They and my feet will have the same intimate relationship that a chrysalis has with its case.
What to do? Begin to wear them around the house? Take them for a walk? My fear here is my innate levels of incompetence, the inevitability I will scuff these little treasures and have to face the ignominy of a bridal scowl.
But not to at least share a little time together, to bond, sock to sole. is also a recipe for disaster if, after an hour or so I’m hobbled. After all I’ve spent decades perfecting my dad-dancing just for this day.
It could be this event amongst events is scrambling my perspective. It’s hot here right now, 35C and heading up. Sandals not shoes are the order of the day. I think I’ll hire a scooter or maybe a wheelchair as back up…
…in brown of course.