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Holes in One’s Shoes
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Holes in One’s Shoes
Mr. Bootblack is a philosopher with distinct views of his own. He earns a living cleaning shoes. Once every two weeks he writes an article about footwear for GDS – and about the wearers.
“Bootblack”, he says, “why are there actually style rules when nobody ultimately knows what they are?” Martin has been coming to me since he started his first job. I would say for about one year. He bought his first pair of proper shoes – plain Oxfords – and we worked hard to make sure that they didn’t suffer from the fact that he had to wear them every day. He simply didn’t have a second pair back then, but that changed. Today, he has three: A pair of full- and a pair of semi-brogue derbies, all of them black, all of them hand-made if indeed still not tailor-made. In order to get that, he will still have to be promoted a couple of levels which, in my humble opinion, he will yet indeed do and he will still continue to spend his money wisely. I know that as I’m very familiar with that. He comes from one of these families where there certainly isn’t a lot of money, but when something is bought, it’s quality. I am certain that his father also doesn’t have more than three pairs of shoes, but all three have lasted more than 20 years. I have to say that I like that.
“Bootblack”, Martin says while I apply cream to the holes in his decorative toe caps. “Perhaps you can explain to me: Of the partners at my firm, half don’t know that one doesn’t wear brogues in the evening. They pay a lot of money for their shoes. Fancy shoes! And then they break all the rules”. I nod because I know that it indeed means a lot to him – the old traditions of style for true gentlemen. When he looks at the holes in his shoes, then he sees before his inner eye the Irish farmers who drilled holes in their heavy-leather shoes hundreds of years ago so that they would dry out on their own quickly. Thus, the models were created. Naturally, Martin is right: One doesn’t wear them in the evening, not in his circles in any case. Or let’s say: One shouldn’t. Whoever once faces the situation in life of having to wear, or just wanting to wear, a smoking jacket, should have enough respect for tradition to pay attention to the small details. Brogues are sports shoes. They have found their way from the English golf courses to the city centres, but they are clearly not intended for dinner parties. Whereby…
“But I probably expect too much”, Martin says and he sounds as if he is simply thinking out loud. He doesn’t wait for an answer, but he continues to speak. “In this city, nobody has any respect for anything. Why then should they have respect for old traditions?” I finish working on his shoes. “The Prince of Wales”, I say, “also wears Brogues.” He looks at me incredulously with a blank look. “Prince Charles?” I shake my head. “The latter King Edward the Eighth. The one who abdicated in order to marry the love of his life. One of the best dressed men of all times.” Martin shakes his head. “But why?”
“Because he wanted to. Because he had his own style. Because it doesn’t matter what a man does as long as he has respect for himself. And he loved golf.” Martin stands up and gives me my money. “I don’t know”, he says, “whether my bosses fall into that category.” I nod at him. “Possibly not”, I say, “but that isn’t the question which should occupy you. The question is: In what category do you fall? Do you know one can search through one’s own life to see whether one earns respect?” The thought goes through his head. He appears to be almost moved. Then he stands up, quite upright and shakes my hand. “Once again a day for giving one’s best”, he says and I smile. “Yes”, I say, “once again a new day.”
