The man who planted shoe trees
Five generations and 170 years of uninterrupted Northampton shoemaking heritage; a shop front that implies you may be impeding the smooth running of the business by stepping inside; the fact that I have more charity-shop-bought shoe trees than decent shoes to put them in; the tangential connection to the handsome actor Chiwetel Ejiofor; none of these is a particularly good reason to have sunk so much money into a pair of Tricker's shoes. I might glue some £20 notes to the soles before stepping into the street - it would not compound the extravagance much. At least they will last for ever. The world is amazingly bad value, don't you think, considering how much time, effort and money you are supposed to spend asserting your place in it. It helps to own a few things that take some time to fall apart.
That said, I did get my underwear at Primark until relatively recently. I was fond of a style they called the Fashion Hipster, and justified buying many £2 pairs of pants on the basis that, maybe for reasons of economy, there was no label in them indicating the country of manufacture. That is, they might easily have been made in deplorable conditions by sweated labour, but it didn't explicitly say so anywhere on the actual underpant. I don't make such puchases anymore, mostly for admirable reasons to do with maintaining my moral smugness in the face of crassly globalised manufacture and retailing. But also, it's just feral in Primark, isn't it. And if you ever catch yourself walking past the window of New Look and thinking hm, that outfit is very me you deserve to be shot down in the street with a poison dart. What do I know though, they don't sell men's clothes in New Look. I really am just going by the crap they see fit to put in the window.
Anyway, shoe trees extend the life of decent shoes indefinitely, and their demise is a small indictment of our disposable ways. This is what happens these days:
Piteous - all the jobless shoe trees. I reunited the two Harrods ones for the picture, but they were seized up and rusty underneath. There was no other pair.
***
Arriving back in Brighton I notice that Divall's Café across from the station has finally closed up. It must have been there at least sixty years, and presumably had its devotees. On my few visits I always half-expected to see a pube poking out of my bacon sandwich. In the little M&S on the forecourt a man grabs me by the shoulder and demands that I help him buy his dinner. "I've broken my nose and I can't read any of the packets." His face is covered in bruises. I do not call him on the nasal/visual non sequitur and we pick out some chicken kievs in a plastic tray, sliced green beans and oven-ready roast potatoes. He is so insistent about making sure there is enough for two that I start expecting to be asked home to eat, but no. I tell him I think it will come to a bit less than eight pounds, and he puts everything down on the floor so that we can shake hands.
That said, I did get my underwear at Primark until relatively recently. I was fond of a style they called the Fashion Hipster, and justified buying many £2 pairs of pants on the basis that, maybe for reasons of economy, there was no label in them indicating the country of manufacture. That is, they might easily have been made in deplorable conditions by sweated labour, but it didn't explicitly say so anywhere on the actual underpant. I don't make such puchases anymore, mostly for admirable reasons to do with maintaining my moral smugness in the face of crassly globalised manufacture and retailing. But also, it's just feral in Primark, isn't it. And if you ever catch yourself walking past the window of New Look and thinking hm, that outfit is very me you deserve to be shot down in the street with a poison dart. What do I know though, they don't sell men's clothes in New Look. I really am just going by the crap they see fit to put in the window.
Anyway, shoe trees extend the life of decent shoes indefinitely, and their demise is a small indictment of our disposable ways. This is what happens these days:
Piteous - all the jobless shoe trees. I reunited the two Harrods ones for the picture, but they were seized up and rusty underneath. There was no other pair.
***
Arriving back in Brighton I notice that Divall's Café across from the station has finally closed up. It must have been there at least sixty years, and presumably had its devotees. On my few visits I always half-expected to see a pube poking out of my bacon sandwich. In the little M&S on the forecourt a man grabs me by the shoulder and demands that I help him buy his dinner. "I've broken my nose and I can't read any of the packets." His face is covered in bruises. I do not call him on the nasal/visual non sequitur and we pick out some chicken kievs in a plastic tray, sliced green beans and oven-ready roast potatoes. He is so insistent about making sure there is enough for two that I start expecting to be asked home to eat, but no. I tell him I think it will come to a bit less than eight pounds, and he puts everything down on the floor so that we can shake hands.