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If laughter is the best medicine there is open heart surgery to be found at http://sweatpantsmom.blogspot.com/ today.

I was “working at home” yesterday. This meant, in practice, wandering about the house feeling grumpy. I decided that I needed cheering up. But what cheers a man up? My mind wandered and instead I asked myself “what cheers a woman up?”. P swears by buying shoes as a ninja route to bliss so I decided that on behalf of the duller sex I would give it a try and set off into town.

Now you are probably thinking: “surely he has bought shoes before” and the answer is “yes, but rarely”. For my shoes I go to Church’s on Chancery Lane. There is no pleasure to be had in that experience. Church’s shoes cost as much as a small car. When you walk into the shop a serious man appears and offers to help. You tell him you want to buy some shoes and he smiles a little wincing smile that says “I see sir is a fuckwit”. Then he prices you. He shows you a pair of sturdy looking brogues which cost £450. They are “an investment” that with a simple care routine will last a lifetime. It is the economy of aristocrats: buy at an insanely expensive price and keep it until it is little more than dust. Having told you the price he stares at you. Do you have the moral will to say no or will you be embarrassed into buying shoes you cannot afford? This is not a process that is ever likely to cheer a person up.

My first stop yesterday was a shop called “Dolcis” in the shopping centre. It was as brightly lit as a service station shop and had hundreds of shoes apparently thrown irregularly onto wire racks. Inside a 4 year old boy was running screaming about while his mother was either struggling to pull on a shoe or having some kind of sobbing nervous attack. Perhaps both. I walked in shading my eyes and caught the gaze of the woman behind the counter. It was a look of such unnerving malevolence that I simply crept backwards out of the shop and ran.

Next came “Office”. It had a thumping dance soundtrack and a counter by the door. This meant that I immediately encountered the assistant who seemed to be having some kind of fit that involved uncontrollable eye-rolling and sighs of boredom. I was the oldest person in the cramped little shop by 15 years and rapidly realised that there was nothing even vaguely boring enough in the shop for me. The dress shoes were made of leather that was cut as thin as Parma Ham and had been crushed to give the shoes the look of urgently needing repair or replacement. They were apparently made for people whose feet are half a metre long and come to a point. I realised that having someone who was nearly 40 in the shop was agitating the shop assistant. I enjoyed her agitation so much I walked around slowly picking up shoes and wiggling my rear to the dance music. But I couldn’t keep it up and with a cheery wave left to try again elsewhere.

I found a “Clarks”. I remember Clarks fondly from childhood. Once a year my mother would take me into our local Clarks store and buy me a pair of Clarks “Attackers” or “Commandos” from a matronly woman. In every box was a comic showing German soldiers dying grizzly deaths which, at the time, was something I was keen on. This was the age before skateboards where one was forced to ride one’s bicycle into nettles or blind oneself with clackers if one wanted to give oneself a serious injury.

I recognised a kindred spirit in Clarks. It was obviously trying, like me, to project a youthful image but could not attract anyone under 30 at gunpoint. The trendier shoes lay untouched in a dusty pile whilst silver-haired ladies competed to buy pairs of tan coloured, lace up flat-soled shoes. They are precisely the sort of geriatric pseudo-trainer that my mum wears. A matronly woman appeared and 35 years just faded from me. She did not call me “the young gentleman” (we are in the 21st century) but she did keep up a never-ending string of contentless but reassuring phrases “it’s nice to find a shoe that fits”, “some people’s feet are wider than others”. She was so “old school ” I expected her to praise my cleverness when I tied my shoelaces without my mother’s assistance and was slightly disappointed when she didn’t. Outside a paranoid schizophrenic on day release was picking a fight with a traffic warden but inside the calm of Clarks I was making my purchase. I can’t say it lifted my mood but I was pleased enough to succumb when she offered me shoe trees.

In conclusion, I don’t see it. I can’t work out what causes the endorphin surge for women in shoe shops. However, I am willing to try other female-approved forms of mood improvement (though, for the avoidance of doubt, I draw the line at sex with men). Suggestions welcome.