Heaven on earth

The clouds part, the angels chorus, a singly ray of sunlight beams down from the sky and the earth stops moving. The second coming you might think. Not yet. It’s Schuh on Oxford Street. This is what happens upon my first encounter with the heavenly shoe shop. Imagine having every single beautiful shoe ever made at your immediate disposal – Dr Martens of every size, shape and colour, the magnificent platforms of T.U.K, and a multitude of heels that the Harajuku girls on the streets of Tokyo would break necks to stake their claim to. Of course, the grey English sky returns and the angels’ chorus fades into the distance as I gradually become aware that the shoes are only at my disposal if I can cough up the cost. The conditional nature of my relationship with shoes was yet again emphasised this morning, when flittering around Google I stumbled upon the Schuh website and then again stumbled upon a most delectable pair of candy-apple red T.U.K platforms that I simply must have. The appearance of these shoes on my computer screen yet again elicited the whole chorusing angels, ray of sunlight thing, which yet again was interrupted with a deafening screech as I remembered that living within a budget does not accommodate candy-apple T.U.K platforms. **sigh**

So I have made it clear that there are many, many … many beautiful shoes that I want but can’t have, but let’s get to the crux of the matter: why? The New York Times suggests that shoes are our representatives. Shoes make a statement. They boldly declare who we are at a given moment, based on age, mood and desire. Does that mean that croc wearers are excused for having a croc day? Fuck no! – in my humble opinion of course. I would not be caught dead in crocs even if they were the last pair of shoes in the world and I was walking across a blisteringly hot desert with giant pussy globules protruding from my feet and there were millions of scorpions, snakes and other deadly creatures lying hidden beneath the sand, slithering a surface below my feet ready to strike me dead at any point. But who am I to judge? Crocs are kind of practical and convenient I suppose. It’s just a pity that they make one’s foot look like a it is encased in a giant piece of Swiss cheese made from rubber, and then there are those little decorations that make them look even more absurd, like a rubber Swiss cheese wearing earrings. WTF?

I certainly am not the oracle of all things shoey but I do have a clear idea of what shoes I like to wear and to be honest, practicality rarely rears its ugly head. Although I do think that wearing my giant platform boots to gigs in order to elevate my breathing potential and stage-viewing capabilities from the likes of stinky armpits, bushy metal-hair and sweating bodies of gross men (and women) who insist on taking their shirts off so that all in sundry can partake of their sweaty discharge, is very practical. However, on most occasions, practicality is sacrificed for the sake of my ‘get-up’. I wore my beautiful T.U.K platforms to a Burlesque party, forgetting that I had to walk along Oxford Street against the grain of tourists who take up an entire pavement to consult their maps and discuss the sites – not so practical. I have four times travelled by plane wearing my 24-up docs. One would think that having to repeatedly remove ones shoes at security, a lengthy process with 24 holes, would change my foot atire logic – it doesn’t.

Whilst my shoes may be impractical, they make up for it by being ever-faithful. Shoes don’t discriminate. They have been called the “devoted dogs of the fashion world – blind to their owner’s physical faults” by Barbara Ellen, in article written for The Observer and published in the guardian.co.uk. Ellen ponders why the modern woman gets “so pathetic and overexcited about shoes”, until she is attacked by a moment of illumination upon the opening of a box of 5-inch-plus black Jimmy Choo heels on Christmas day. Ellen’s reaction most aptly describes the feeling I get from a good shoe: “These weren’t just shoes, not even fuck-me shoes; they were ‘Fuck you all, I’m Queen of the World’ shoes”. Most men don’t get this and even some women don’t but I guarantee that there are an abundance of Queens strutting around the world this very day.

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