The joy of shoes

Am I alone in appreciating a nice shoe? Most people seem to buy a cheap pair of shoes which then fall apart after a year, forcing them to buy another pair. Nick C from my local Wanstead patch is the classic example of this. Every time I see him on the patch he has a new pair of shoes on because the pair I saw him in last time have mysteriously developed a hole and are letting in water, and that isn’t a reflection of how frequently I go birding locally. I take the opposite approach – a higher initial outlay but then years of mostly trouble-free use. For instance I had a pair of brown brogues that I bought in 1997 and that I only threw away last year – 21 years of service, albeit that during the final few years they had been relegated to gardening shoes. They were refurbished only once during that time, and came back almost as good as new. It was a sad day when they finally reached the end of their long, long life. Happily I have managed to replace them with a pair of scotch grain derbys on dainite soles which look equally sturdy, I’ll let you know in 2040 how they’re looking.

I actually have another pair of brogues that were bought at around the same time, either 1998 or 1999, but these were never worn as much as the first pair as they were very slightly on the tight side. I had these repaired about five years ago, just before the first pair became the gardening shoes – how about that for advance planning?! They too came back after a 10 week holiday looking equally sparkly, and I happily started wearing them as my everyday go-to shoe. So much so that they are now beginning to show their age and I found myself in that grey area between a further repair or whether to buy a second-hand pair in better condition – a pair of brown brogues is of course an absolute must for the fashion-conscious man-about-town . I chose to source different ones purely on the basis that the fit was not quite perfect, and I’m pleased to say that I have now found a lovely pair on Ebay that should last for ages and ages.

Wait, you wear second hand shoes? Shoes worn by another person? Absolutely, no qualms whatsoever. A pair of decent shoes cost £400 new and that is obscene really in this day and age. If you hunt around a bit you can pick up a pair with only a small amount of wear for a third of that, often even less - the last pair I bought cost a mere £50 and needed no remedial work whatsoever. A bit of basic hygiene and off you go. If you are so inclined you can also send them back to the factory where they were made and have them come back almost as new and still end up ahead. I’ve now bought four pairs of pre-owned shoes and been extremely happy with three of them; being fickle I sold the fourth. Style is everything, not for nothing am I known as a fashionista.

I suppose you are wondering at this stage whether I have a shoe fetish? Well, a bit. How many pairs of shoes do I have? Not as many as Mrs L is the only answer I am prepared to give. OK, if you only count proper shoes, and not wellies, flip-flops etc, it is well under ten. Ten?!! Ten!!!!!! Well, I have two pairs of shoes for work which I rotate, both black oxfords but in different styles. One pair is actually the ones I got married in, which makes them close to 18 years old – they are still going strong, just as we are! Then I have 3 pairs of more utilitarian brown shoes in different styles, one of which is going to find a new home shortly, and then an essential pair of tan brogues. So that’s six pairs. Walking boots seven, a pair of running shoes eight (immaculate condition!), and then two pairs of western boots. Western boots? Oh yes….. They are very special…. No, no photos of me wearing them exist I’m afraid.

You cannot however buy yourself a decent pair of shoes and then expect to have them last several decades just because they are well made. Maintenance is key, and good shoes  need looking after on a regular basis. Those brown brogues I mentioned were purchased during my feckless years, and I still feel a twinge of regret that they might have gone on for far longer had I looked after them properly in their early days. These days I brush, clean and polish on a mildly obsessive basis. All the shoes have trees, and I rotate what I wear so that the shoes get a rest. When I put them on I use a shoe horn to protect the heel, and if I go out in bad weather, the first thing that will happen when I get home is that the shoes get a brush down, then the trees go in, and then they are left to dry for a couple of days before I give them a clean. And it goes without saying that the more you look after them, the easier it becomes to keep them in tip top shape. I've got a selection of brushes, cloths, creams and waxes that I keep in an old wooden box, and there is something actually quite pleasurable about sitting down of an evening and getting my shoes looking really nice.

I hope you have all enjoyed this mega-boring post.

Movember madness

Only a few more days go, it is getting rather wearing. My children (though they have been since given up for adoption) challenged me to do Movember. Much in the same way as they challenged me to do a 'fun' run. Apparently this is penance for various unspecified misdemeanours, such as when I took the car keys to Norfolk and they had - shock, horror - to take public transport one morning. 

Before I continue, this wasn't because they wanted to see me with a moustache, but because they figured I couldn't grow one, and that in trying I would look utterly ridiculous and thus they would gain a month's worth of daily amusement from the pathetic wisps of fluff that would no-doubt adorn my top lip. They were right in one sense, I do look utterly ridiculous, and they are amused daily, but I have surprised even myself with the vigour of growth. And by the amount of white. And worse than that, ginger. I mean where the hell does that come from? I need to talk to my Mum. If she is my Mum.

Nontheless it has been hard, as bottom line is that I am not one of those extremely hairy people. There are guys in my office who can grow in a few days what has taken me nearly four weeks. I started off with the full beard look, until it was pointed out that this was cheating and it had to be tash only. Now, there's no point going at it half-assed and growing a tiny little neatly trimmed thing. No, if you're going to raise money for a decent cause you might as well go at it 100%. Sorry, make that 110%. So I've tried to look as stupid as possible, going for the full mexican look as famously worn by Big Merv. Obviously I've got nothing on Merv, the luxuriance of that particular tash knows almost no equal, however to attempt to grow a mere shadow of it is a particularly stupid look. So, I psyched myself up for it and, armed with two bics, attacked my face after about ten days. 

It was terrible. What I should have done was buy a trimmer thing, but I am far too tight for that. Instead I ripped my face apart, blood everywhere, not nice at all. Both bics were trashed beyond re-use, and I was disappointed to require a third. I mean Jesus, that's probably 60p right there! But with a small amount of pain and a higher amount of humiliation comes maximum fund-raising, or that's the plan. I think I'm currently at around £120, which is in no way fair recompense for the daily event of mothers crossing the street with their children, people moving away from me on the tube, that kind of thing. Notwithstanding that I have to manage a team of however many people at work and they're supposed to take me seriously. Whereas now they just giggle.

Anyhow, the joy of the internet is that images can accompany words, and I felt it would be unfair to deprive my many readers (both of them) the opportunity to also enjoy my discomfort. And to donate, obviously, though don't feel you have to. 

http://uk.movember.com/mospace/11405553

So with that done, here's a picture of my chin pre-shave this morning. Chins. Whatever. Shut up.

Yeehah!

What a fabulous weekend. Wanstead Flats overflowing with migrants, and then two amazing afternoons of top-quality music at the O2 in Greenwich. I'm only lying about one of these things, and it being mid-March you might think I would be talking about the latter. Especially when I tell you it was a country music festival, Nashville-on-Thames. But no, Wanstead Flats had no migrants whatsoever, bar a Chiffchaff that has probably been here all along but only just started singing. It was pretty rubbish on both mornings, all the good singing started around 4pm.

For those of you that don't know, I'm a big fan of country music. This is less dominated by twangy banjos these days, but there are still a lot of songs about love, cold beer, and trucks. Generally a love of cold beer and trucks, though possibly of high school sweethearts too. Frankly it's an ideal complement to my other cool hobby of birdwatching, and makes me the all-round "hey, I wanna be that guy" guy. Not. But I don't care, I absolutely love it, as those who have been on long-distance twitches with me driving will know. The Country2Country festival (such a great title, so much hidden meaning...) is becoming an annual event, and takes place over an entire weekend. There is now sufficient demand for this genre that they're able to fill the O2, and what was almost a sell-out last year was a definite sell-out this time around. Last year I only went to one of the days, and saw amongst others two massive names, Vince Gill and Tim McGraw (look 'em up!), but this year I went the whole hog and was there both days. The line ups were Martina McBride, Dierks Bentley, The Dixie Chicks, and the Zac Brown Band, followed on Sunday by Chris Young, The Band Perry, Rascal Flatts, and finally Brad Paisley. Just so people can understand quite how popular they are, I did a protracted search on the wikipedia, and between them these eight artists have won 20 Grammy awards, and sold a massive 83 million albums (and that's just in the US), 29 of which went platinum (or multi-so), with a further 10 gold. This is big, big stuff. Dixie Chicks album Wide Open Spaces sold 12 million copies. That's more than Automatic for the People. More than Back to Black. More than Harvest. More than The Lion King soundtrack.

Getting ready

Lots of this. NO shame.

It was of course fabulous, with the Dixie Chicks, Rascal Flatts and Dierks Bentley being particular highlights. The Zac Brown Band, possibly my favourite group at the minute, were excellent but I didn't think as good as when at the Shepherd's Bush Empire last year, and Brad Paisley, like Tim McGraw (40 million albums, 20 Grammys...), was a superstar and exemplary showman. Cowboy boots and wide-brimmed hats were of course in abundance, though not on me. I draw the line at a truckers cap, I have no need to look (more) like a tit. Anyhow, something like ten hours of live music over two afternoons/evenings, and a brilliant atmosphere. If they can keep it going I'll be there every year. Whilst I prefer the smaller venues for sure, the convenience of multiple acts one after the other with much reduced "per band" rates is an excellent idea, and one I hope continues. 

Pretty much a perfect weekend as far as I was concerned, let down only by a distinct lack of Wheatears. Partial redemption on the way back from the Sunday gig with calling Tawny Owl as I walked home from the bus. When I got home I ordered eight new CDs. Twitchers beware.

Yes, some brainwashing did occur....

Speedos. Get the look.

The last time I wore Speedos in anger was in 1997. Then, as now, I was in France. I had just purchased a ten-swim pass for the swimming pool in Montpellier in another vain attempt to become lithe and fit. Proudly recalling my 2000m swimming certificate from yesteryear, I was looking forward to burning a few calories. I can't jog, I certainly can't run, I detest gyms, but swimming I don't mind. Popped the old swimshorts on, walked through the shower, then through the freezing little pool of foot detergent, and was about to lower myself into the pool when a shout of "Ah non, monsieur! called me back. "Oui?" I replied to the lifeguard/style policeman.

To cut a long story short, or perhaps to cut a shorts story shorter (and tighter), my trusty swimshorts were interdit. If I wanted to swim, I had to be wearing Speedos. I looked around. Everyone, well, the men anyway, were all wearing miniscule Speedos. I was doomed. Now I have no qualms about being slightly fat, nor exposing my wobbly tummy in public. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter, as someone once said. No, a body is merely a shell. On the outside I might be pale and flabby, but on the inside I glow. Warmth positively emanates. But wearing Speedos is different. I am British, and British people do not strut about displaying their packages in extremely small and tight-fitting swimming trunks. Or at least, not sensible ones. But at that particular moment I wanted to go swimming, so some minute Speedos were duly purchased at the front desk, where they kept a supply specially for naive tourists.

My swim-pass ran out with nine unused sessions.

I forgot all about this disturbing incident, and that pair of Speedos have been consigned to dustbin of history. In fact I probably threw them out that same day, knowing I would never wear them again. So packing for France, I threw my trusty swimshorts in the suitcase, and thought nothing of it. Mrs L, supposedly the better of the two us at packing, forgot to pack her bikini, so as our visit to the pool at Narbonne approached, we reaslised we needed to go and buy one for her. An Intersport shop was spotted close-by, but we thought that before splashing out, so to speak, we should check that the pool was at least open. Mrs L popped in, and came back with good news and bad news.

The good news; the swimming pool was open. The kids were immediately cheered. The bad news (delivered with a smirk I might add); we were both going shopping....swim-shorts were "interdit!" Gah! It all came flooding back to me. But we had to go swimming, the kids were desperate, and this pool had slides and everything. I spent the drive to Intersport cursing France and everything French.

The choice of Speedos was astonishing, there is clearly a large market. I bet that if you went to a sports shop here though, you would be hard-pressed to find even a single pair. I chose the cheapest ones, still eight euros, and conservatively went for "L" in the vain hope that it might preserve some of my anglo-saxon modesty. Fat chance. To give you an idea of quite how little material is used in these things, here they are in an espresso cup.



The kids had a wonderful time, however for reasons I cannot fathom, I did not enjoy it. The lady at the desk told me that swim-shorts were interdit because they couldn't be sure that people hadn't been wearing them outdoors, and so to preserve hygiene standards (and this coming from a nation that still has holes in the ground instead of toilets) they insist that people wear Speedos, which obviously people would never be seen dead in outdoors. A cunning strategy, except that French men probably wear Speedos at all possible opportunities. Dominique Strauss-Khan was almost certainly wearing Speedos in New York recently, but I digress. We were at the swimming pool for about an hour, and although I didn't get any comments, I knew it was not a good look. Nonetheless, in all good conscience I cannot conclude this post without a photograph of me modelling them.

You are invited to look away now, however, for the more curious amongst you, scroll down.....





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