I will always remember my mum taking me to buy school shoes.
It was a very tricky recurring event in my life and I think the mental acrobatics that it caused in my brain at a young age has a lot to answer for. It may have been partly responsible for the formation of those early – slightly obsessive – synapses.
Back then, whilst we definitely did not have an excess of anything, we were doing ok. We got by, and there was enough in the kitty for necessities. And so Mum, in the interests of being a good and proper parent, would duly take me school shoe shopping. Twice a year. In Mothercare.
Ah yes! I wryly I recall that it was to Mothercare’s small footwear department that we habitually went to acquire my next pair of shoes, and the choice was, to say the least, limited.
In fact, there only ever seemed to be one option per season. In autumn/winter, a leather strapped, wide and clumpy Mary Jane was it, with impractical little dotty holes cut out of the toe end for decoration. Rather clownish, as I recall, owing to the clappy splat one’s foot made as it touched the ground, and to make them all the more horrific, they were usually reddish brown. Somehow, the brown ones (never the black) were destined for my little feet.
In summer, Mum would take me back to Mothercare, where I would be offered a selection of sandals (the only variation within that selection being a range of sizes) and I would walk out of the shop, the distraught new owner of a classic pair of Jesus Creepers, complete with buckle and, once again, in a shade of putrid sh1t..
I tried to protest in the shop – to share my opinion – to desperately declare my sartorial preferences. I was after all (clearly unbeknownst to my mum) a shoe girl – who made her bridesmaids ones last for years, so beautiful they were. I would get them out and try them on and I can still remember the feeling it gave me… I loved something with a heel. I also had a pair of white cut-out leather (the softest leather!) summer shoes with a small flat heel that I would play 40/40 in and feel like the bees’ knees. They were not built for running in but I made it work. And then there was the pair of green velvet 60s wedges that were in the dressing-up box that would inexplicably find themselves on my feet on a regular basis. I definitely had Imelda Marcos vibes bubbling up. So, the visits to Mothercare to buy these clodhopping monstrosities were hell.
My protests were fruitless though. Not for me were the ebony kitten heeled slip-ons from Tammy Girl, or even a sensible black lace-up M&S number – oh no. Fashion was not a factor. It was practicality all the way. Mum was not one for fripperies.
The trauma of shoe shopping over, I would trudge home feeling guilty. Shoes cost money, and we couldn’t waste money on shoes I refused to wear. I hated the shoes, and had probably behaved badly in the shop, but I knew that Mum was only ever trying to do the right thing and send me and my brother to school in something sensible. You would think I wouldn’t be that bothered at the age of what can only have been seven or eight. But I was. I really was.
Even so, the anger at the shoes I ended up with invariably gave way to so much subsequent guilt at my own behaviour that I resolved, scowling intently, during the walk home, to accept – even befriend – these dreadful shoes, and treat them as a symbol of my mother’s love for me. I would jolly well wear the sodding things, and learn to like them, cherish them even. After all, they were new, and they had been fitted to my feet, and my mum had bought them. For me. And they did smell really good, actually. That leathery odour was the only silver lining.
I wonder sometimes if this was the moment that signified a new direction for me as a person. The fashionable, cool little person I was possibly emerging as (!) reluctantly found a conscience, a knack of prioritising functionality over fashion. Of not being ungrateful when money was tight. Maybe, I secretly came to enjoy the nerdy look. And chastising myself. Who knows? But whereas I remember being quite girly at one point, I then morphed and entered my tomboy era, all fringe and baggy jumpers, which culminated in a trip to the hairdresser at the age of fourteen when my strict instruction to Steban the Stylist was not to do anything fashionable. Cue – a bowl cut in my teenage prime.
Whatever else was going on, I was definitely an over-thinker, and I often recall those trips to the long since departed Motherare branch, and how difficult I must have been for Mum in that shop, smouldering away with palpable contempt for the mission at hand.
And the reason why shoe shopping now springs to mind is that this very morning, my darling son -Boy Seymour, sat at the breakfast table, fiddling with his school shoes. Now, these school shoes have been looking on the small side for a while now, what with Boy growing a foot and half in the last four months – or so it seems. But I naively assumed he would let me know if they became problematic.
Well. Clearly I am naive and shouldn’t assume, for this morning, not only did I discover that these shoes are two sizes too small, but they are also falling apart.
No wonder he has been walking strangely.
I am a terrible mother.
Bearing in mind that he is due to leave school in less that three months, I am reluctant to spend a fortune on new “school” shoes, and so I reached for my Amazon app. How shopping has changed! There are so many sensible, good value options on there that could see my son through these next few months in comfort and – I daresay- a modicum of style, but he suddenly got very nervous and had to veto every shoe I suggested. He then promptly forbade me to buy any of them and said he would rather wear his small, damaged Nikes forever instead.
I felt the familiar rush of despair, anger and frustration wash over me as I protested that a shoe is a shoe, and these ones here look just like the ones he is already wearing and AMAZON will even deliver these TODAY, but he wasn’t budging. It was stale mate. He needs shoes but I know that it is pointless spending 50, 40 or even 20 pounds on shoes he will refuse to wear.
Once again I am confronted with the conundrum of whether I am a parent who will take charge and order the sodding off-brand “school” trainers and let Boy like it or lump it, or whether I am a considerate (push over?) mother, should listen to his preferences and consider his street cred. I literally cannot decide which one I am. To an extent, I can relate, after my juvenile shoe trauma. But a pair of sodding Nikes is expensive – and it is RIDICULOUS that branding can have the youth all so hypnotised. And I never, ever got branded shoes when I was a kid. Never. Unless you call Mothercare a brand. Which I categorically do not.
The upshot is that Boy needs shoes. Black ones, to last him a few more months and are school-acceptable. And he needs them fast…
PING!
Amazon order done.
They’re not Nikes (turns out Amazon doesn’t do Nikes..?) but neither are they the brand I was quite tempted with that looked to me just like his current Nikes – a new brand I have not heard of before, a special Amazon brand named … Analeaf. Anal leaf. Clearly something has got lost in translation there. Tempting though the price was, even I couldn’t send my son to school in anal leaves.
So, order done! I will let you know how it goes!
UPDATE: Trainers arrived, trainers were rejected. My powers of persuasion are gone. Trainers being returned to Amazon imminently, and Boy has ordered some for himself on Vinted. This should be interesting. If they ever turn up. His previous unsupervised Vinted purchases have mostly been three sizes too small and so I fear for his feet and I expect I will have to order another sodding pair of Nikes after all.
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