There is, however, one weakness in my carefully built up insistences that shoes are something that happen to other women, and that becomes apparent when we get to the subject of Doc Martens. 'cause I maybe sort of own five pairs. And I love them with a passion that I rarely manage to muster for any other animal, vegetable or mineral. I couldn't care less about most shoes, but show me a shiny ankle high work boot and I am SO ON THAT. It's a bit ridiculous.
This obsession began Back in the Day (year 11? I think) when my mother was clearing out her wardrobe and discovered a pair of dark green ones that she'd never managed to wear in. I pounced on them, and after getting more than a few comments from friends about how they preferred me in Converse (lol teenagers) and these looked like wellies, I eventually managed to win them over to my beautiful boots of majesty. I also put weird colourful teeny laces in them. They were, in short, majestic, despite their habit of mashing up my feet if I wore them too regularly. And I believe it was these that I was wearing when I discovered a pair of black ones in my size at a car boot sale for £15. I bought them immediately, and it was then that the addiction truly began. I owned more than one pair of Doc Martens. It was only going to get worse from here.
Next came a pair of pink ones which were, for some reason, not made out of the same shiny stuff as the rest of them. They were also slightly bigger than my other boots and thus caused foot destruction at a much higher rate, making them my least-worn pair (but they were PINK! And they went with a lot of my sixth form outfits. So I think they did well out of that). In the meantime, I had painted orange stripes on the black ones for some sort of fancy dress thing, which made them cool for a while and then not so much. I also at some point inherited a pair of dark blue snakeskin ones which went a bit unloved at the time but have been my second year boot of choice.
All this was in the heady days of sixth form, when I was experimenting with fashion in ways which probably shouldn't ever be repeated by any sane person. I have never since had more than one pair of Doc Martens in use per year. And it was this habit that was started by my fifth and most marvellous pair- the cherry reds.
I bought them to wear to China, and despite the fact they were completely impractical in both winter and summer (no grip on snow and not much air circulation in the warm...), I wore them to death and loved them more than any boot before or since. However, as they are new and thus not from the old school made-in-England-will-survive-nuclear-attacks-but-will-never-stop-skinning-your-ankles strain of Docs, they began to wear much earlier than my other pairs (barring the pink ones). The toes lost their colour from banging them against the stairs up to my flat in order to get the snow off. The sides began to fray from where my foot bends. The laces went fluffy and difficult to tie. The eyelets started coming off the lace holes. My cherry reds were no longer the shiny new things of 2007. They were starting to wear.
And I, shamefully, began to see these imperfections as reasons not to love my boots any more. I wondered with annoyance why my greens and blues and blacks could stay new and shiny indefinitely and yet this pair, supposedly the best Doc Martens I would ever own, had to grow old so quickly. And after getting back to England in August 2008 I put them in the cupboard and got out my greens instead.
Two years go by. I wore green in 08/09, and blue in 09/10. My reds were left forgotten and dusty in a cupboard. That is, until this week, when in a fit of travel nostalgia, I opened my cupboard and found them, looking distressed but beautiful and holding all the memories of a year bumming around the People's Republic. I would otherwise have taken my blues, or no Doc Martens at all (!), but something made me pick up my Reds and pack them into my rucksack, "just in case".
I get the X5. I get off. I spend Tuesday in sandals. And then on Wednesday, I need some slightly more practical footwear to go cycling in. I unpack the cherry reds which I have not worn for years... and it is hard to describe the sensation which occurs next. The year of hard wear may have made them look old, but it had also softened them in ways which, having never compared before, I had never really realised. Putting them on was like having my feet hugged by... two really small fluffy puppies or something, I don't know. Walking up and down in them, they give just the right amount of support and give- powerful for kicking people (useful when you're going to a party with Zac), but without any risk of the blisters which all the others will give no matter how much wear they get. They are, in short, majestic.
And they have not judged me. They still love me as much as I realise I love them. Forgive me, cherry reds. I will never forsake you again. We are meant to be together for as long as you live.
... although I do kinda want to wear my blacks next year.
*actually, it always worries me that this threshold is much higher than I usually think. Then again... who cares?
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