05 Sep 2026
issue 05 September 2026
Comments
Last week, aged 26, I bought myself my first pair of shoes. Before now, I have relied on the Magic Shoe Fairy to deliver a pair of brogues or boots at Christmas. I get through shoes at an alarming rate, based on a shambling gait inexplicable to science, and an unfortunate habit of treading down the backs rather than putting them on properly.
But glancing down at my last pair on my way into work, I snapped. I realised that the size of the holes, the copious scuffing and the ominous looks from fellow passengers was making my shoes indistinguishable from those worn by the tramps and crackheads outside Victoria Station. I made a beeline for M&S. But as pleased as I was with my grown-up purchase, they brought a familiar and horrible rubbing. By the time I reached Old Queen Street, I was hobbling like a veteran from the Somme. Is there anything more painful than wearing in new shoes?
