My dear readers; come closer. I have a little secret to share with you. I love shoes, I simply adore them – shoes, sandals, boots, sneakers – leather, suede, canvas, patent leather, even rope – you can never have enough espadrilles. Just walking into a shoe shop makes my whole body sigh with bliss.
I fear that some of you may have rolled your eyes at my confession, but in fairness, you must admit that a pair of well-kept shoes speaks volumes – far more, I daresay, than any hurried introduction. Whether one is strolling along the esplanade or attending a quiet luncheon, tidy footwear lends a sense of composure to the entire affair.
I don’t believe I’ve ever shared this particular little episode with you, but there was – brace yourself – a moment in my marriage when I very nearly contemplated divorce. Quite seriously.
It was a Thursday morning, perfectly ordinary on the surface. I had intended to pop out to the chemist for a few necessities, and as luck would have it, a new coffee shop had just opened, much discussed, even revered, among my luncheon ladies.
So I said to my Brian, “Why not come along and we shall try it together?” (And yes, before you raise an eyebrow, I do enjoy coffee, though tea remains, as ever, my steadfast companion in all of life’s circumstances.)
“Right-oh,” Brian said, “I shall just slip on my shoes, I’ll be back in a moment.”
What happened next, I regret to inform you, was nothing short of ghastly. Even now, it visits me in the small hours.
Deep breath.
Brian, having changed his footwear, re-entered the kitchen wearing … well … wearing …
I’ll say it quickly … green moulded rubber clogs.
There. I’ve said it. My therapist will be thrilled with this progress.
I am told – again, by said therapist – that they are called Crocs, and that they are not in fact rubber but some form of plastic. A distinction, apparently, of great importance.
Though quite honestly, I fail to see how that improves matters.
Anyway, I digress. Back to the kitchen, and to the moment that nearly brought about a most regrettable division of assets.
“Where, pray tell, do you think you are going with those hideous things on your feet?” I asked, admittedly in a tone that could best be described as a horrified squeak.
“Well … out for a coffee,” he replied, with the serene innocence of a man entirely unaware that our 28-year union was dangling over the abyss.
“Are you quite mad?” I pressed.
“What?” he said, genuinely startled.
“Those … things.”
“Crocs happen to be very popular,” he informed me, puffing up slightly. “Everybody wears them.”
“G-strings are very popular too,” I snapped, “but one doesn’t insist on seeing anyone over thirty parading about in them.”
Now, in the interests of honesty, that may not be entirely accurate. My dear friend Julie, for instance, does pay her pool man a little extra to clean the pool in a rather abbreviated bathing costume, and I must say, for a gentleman of 34, he is impressively … well maintained. But that is quite beside the point and strictly between us. Not a word, if you please. Julie would be mortified.
In any case, the coffee outing was, quite understandably, abandoned. Brian retreated to the garden shed for several hours of quiet sulking. He did eventually re-emerge for lunch, suitably subdued, and I am pleased to report I have never since seen those dreadful objects upon his feet.
But listen to me, prattling on. Let us gather ourselves.
Because in the end, my dears, it isn’t simply about fashion, or even preference. It is about standards. About drawing a quiet, unwavering line between what is acceptable… and what most certainly is not.
A polished shoe suggests order. Care. A life being lived with a certain intention.
A rubber clog, on the other hand, suggests one has given up entirely and is merely waiting for lunch.
And I, for one, am not prepared to share a coffee — let alone a life — with a man who has surrendered to that particular abyss.
Yours, as ever, in neatness, discernment, and proper footwear.
Until next week, dears x
PS: In his defence Brian says 120 million pairs of Crocs are sold each year … meaning many people must like them.
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