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.
My allll time favorite part of this post was:
“slowly picking up shoes and wiggling my rear to the dance music.”
Cuz see…looking at shoes DID pick up your spirits…even if was to just mess with the help! 😉
I never got why shopping for shoes is supposed to cheer you up. I walk into shops like Dolcis and Office and immediately feel old, unattractive and deeply unfashionable (which normally I like). I have only ever tried on one pair of shoes in shop in my adult life and that was only because my mum was wth me. This is usually becasue I am wearing odd socks or, worse, no socks; or the tights I have on are starting to ladder (this is guaranteed, even if I only piut them on 20 minutes before!). Clothes shopping is equally as torturous; but the one female-approved form of mood improvement I would suggest is the tried and tested coffee and people watch, so you can bitch about them later (or take a friend – it can be a team activity!).
I laughed my way through this entire thing! As a regular reader of my blog, you know about my recent shoe transformation, from the variety created for people whose feet “are half a metre long and come to a point” to the more sane, boring variety. Regardless of my shoe type at any given time, I too am at a loss as to what is so special about shoe-shopping. And I am a woman. So the stereotype does not fit for all.
But I do like sex with the men! So there’s something for everyone. You’ll find your mood elevator if you keep looking!
Jen – you are right. I need to get in touch with my inner evil
Bec – the most stressful part of the whole process is when you go to take your own shoes off and suddenly wonder what state your socks are in. I’m going to try the coffee and bitching thing.
Amanda – I’m beginning to wonder whether it is all a lie and when women say they have spent all day buying shoes they have instead been gambling at the track and drinking champagne cocktails.
Moobs, you’re on a roll, very funny again.
I’ve got weird feet that just don’t work in shoes, so I’ve never ever ever got the buzz from shopping for them. I’m not really into shopping anyway. Also, as a woman in her late 20s I can confirm that Office is not the friendliest place to shop. I think you need to be 16 and a trendy size 6 to get anthing bordering on customer service there.
I can’t wait until I’m old enough to wear geriatric pseudo-trainers and my feet won’t hurt anymore.
Did the clarks lady measure your feet with one of those little green things with a tape that goes over the top and a slidey bit that she has to push up against your toes? That was always the best bit about buying shoes when I was little.
As always, both funny and informative. I have spent rather too much time in shoe shops over recent months as I repeatedly failed to find shoes that actually fit correctly.
Babs – no. I used to love that bit. My local Clarks had a measuere that closed in both to the toes and the side of the foot and had something that looked like log tables etched in the base. The shop I was in had something that looked like a weighing machine with flashing red lights on it which I suppose does it all by lasers now. However, at my age I apparently expected jsut to know my shoe size. BTW Penny spent much of yesterday evening chuckling in bed to B&S. I’m starting to grow resentful 🙂
Rick – in which dimension is your problem?
Menace and I also went to find him some shoes the other day. Funnily enough he too was wishing he could go to Clark’s, though of course there is no such thing here. I wonder what it is about Clark’s that attracts men. Though I admit that I too would be happy to shop somewhere that had one of those old foot measures in it.
I’m with Jen – that “slowly picking up shoes and wiggling my rear to the dance music.†line was hilarious!! I’m very surprised you would even attempt the shoe shopping thing as a pick-me-up, but impressed. Sorry it didn’t work out for you! The trick is finding perfect shoes. THEN you come home smiling.
If I want to feel happier and it’s nice outside, I’ll sit on my balcony with a glass (or four) of wine, some cheese and crackers, and read Wine Spectator magazine. Good times.
In the states we judge a person by what car he drives. In my opinion, you win out by having your character and social status judged by a pair of shoes — far less expensive. After reading a stretch of British literature, I mentally called people fuckwits for the better part of a year. Thank you for remnding me of what a delicious word it is.
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I am a 6 and a half shoe-size, (not a terribly common shoe-size for girls in the UK it seems) and I have wide feet too – which makes shoe-buying hell. My favourite line from a shoe-sales-person is when you ask them for a 6-and-a-half, and they say: ” I’m sorry, we don’t stock a 6-and-a-half……. We’ve only got a 5-and-a-half…….” and they look at you as though you might like to try the pair that’s a full size smaller than your foot.
I can’t work out the logic. If people regularly have size 5-and-a-half feet (a regular ladies shoe-size), why in God’s name is it so weird that there are people who might take a 6-and-a-half, or even a 7-and-a-half, eh?????
Re: My feet.
This is it, there’s no single obvious problem. I’ve taken an 11 for years, but some were too narrow, some were too wide, some were too short, some were too long and some had funny bits that were uncomfortable. One pair had this totally unnecessary plastic bit that pressed down on one toe but only on my right foot, another pair was fine but for the hugely over-sized tongue that dug in my ankle and so on and so forth…for literally months since my old pair went in holes (the same place on both shoes!)
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“They were apparently made for people whose feet are half a metre long and come to a point.” – excellent… Now I, on the other hand would have been thrilled to not only witness the irritation of the shop assistant, but to also be so lucky enough as to see the paranoid schizophrenic pick a fight with the traffic warden? That’s gold.
hmmm. generally speaking, anything that involves me pondering over the purchase of something new and shiny does the trick. I don’t exactly have to buy…but at least pretend to buy. I think i may even more so, enjoy the internal dialouge that is ‘needs vs. wants’. to walk out of a store sans purchase of ‘thing’ that either looked fabulous on me, or in my home, is a small victory in the arena of self-discipline. of which i have little.
bravo to you and your clarks shoppin self. (of which…i happen to love…and i am not quite 30).
I’m all about the Desert Trek.
http://www.clarksusa.com/product/Detail.aspx?prodId=259&Level1=M&scroll=0&page=1&Level2=6