This unimaginative shoe wardrobe is brutally basic. Surely I can, at the very least, keep what I have a bit spiffy.
Years ago, I would line up the many pairs of school shoes, plus a couple of Dad’s dress shoes, and furiously polish them. I was addicted to shine or perhaps to the process of creating shine.
Shoe after shoe would be transformed. The scuffs marks that proved life had been lived were covered with dark polish and buffed into non-existence.
Perhaps it’s age. I’m a terror now for not polishing my shoes. It became a rare event. It was often a non-event. Laziness? Or an acceptance that life’s scrapes can’t always be hidden?
In my twenties, shoes would be worn until they barely hung together. My grandmother would try to give me money for a new pair.
But times have again changed.
The cooler weather has seen the winter shoes out of the cupboard and onto the feet; unpolished, until my Mum saw them. “I’ve got polish in the laundry … it won’t take long”, she said, knowing I had called in on my way to work.
This is my Year of Making Things Nice, and my winter practicals should be no exception.
So, out came the Kiwi, a slightly more modern version than that used during my school days. Dabbed on the liquid polish and buffed.
Perhaps concealment is comforting again.