Bereavement and Creativity (3) | Desert Island DMs continued

The rest of the short story I began in my last blog entry ends thus:

I spend my early 30s free and single with my cat Pringles for company. I take my court shoes to Oxfam and live in a pair of Dr Martens, teamed with jeans. I insist on Ms as my title and wear my DMs when dancing and demonstrating; from UB40 to Poll Tax Marches. My loving parents support and challenge me in equal measures as I clarify my personal politics and develop a more positive sense of self.

At 37 I meet Phil, become stepmother to his three children and give birth to another. We all live well together. The shoe store is under the stairs and my work shoes and DMs lie jumbled together with Phil’s brogues and boots, a number of pairs of Clarks and Start-Rites, football boots and dancing shoes.

In my 40s, I move away from DMs, although I couldn’t wear a heel now if you paid me. I try once when shopping for a party outfit but can’t take a single step. It’s back to Clarks and the like. I add to my reading on foot development and know the damage high heels do to a woman’s feet and her posture is comparable to that of foot binding. I like my feet. They are a nice shape with neat toes. I feel a little smug about this. I could be a celebrity’s foot double.

In my 50s now I’ve deserted Clarks for the second time, upon discovering a new brand of comfy, quirky flatties. When the sun comes out, I swap them for sandals and paint my toenails to match the colour of the leather. But my favourite shoes are a pair of pink nubuck loafers. Yes, fifty years on, I’ve found pink again. I discovered this lovely footwear in a shop on the outskirts of Covent Garden, on a trip to London. There’s more time and more money, for these sorts of trips now. I’m more confident in my sixth decade than I’ve ever been. Happy in my own skin. Happy in my own shoes.

There is great sadness in this decade, too. My mum, who was very concerned about shoes herself (and the owner of the best, most colourful sock collection I’ve ever known) died not long ago. In whatever shoes I’ve worn, she has walked along beside me and I miss her company, her support and her guidance.

If I had to choose my favourite pair of shoes to date, it would have to be my DMs, because of the personal development they represent in my life.  But with luck my shoe story won’t be over for a while yet, and the coming years will bring more in which to walk, run and play.

Who knows? Maybe the best is yet to come.

Gayle's 'Gayle'  Biker Boots

This year, more than two years since I finished this story, I discovered a range of Dr Martens boots for women in a variety of colours called 'Gayle' Biker Boots (yes really). Here’s a picture of my cherry red pair (I’ve got some in black too). 

Bereavement and Creativity (2) | Desert Island DMs

What follows is the beginning of a short story – Desert Island DMs - I wrote not long after my mum died in January 2012. It is a story but there are many connections with my own life and the shoes are all ones I have owned and worn. The piece has appeared online previously as it was shortlisted for the then publication FiveStop Story:

Have you seen that advert for shoes? Clarks I think. Looking down, actors chant, ‘New Shoes,’ as if in a trance.  When I’m famous and asked to chart my life, I’ll do it through shoes.

*

I’m two (my mum has told me this story and I’ve seen the photo) and sitting on the step of our house. The front door is red, like my shoes. They have shiny buckles and are probably Clarks, or maybe Start-Rite. I’m dressed in a pink knitted outfit - a coat and hat with kitten ears – lovingly made by my grandmother. I’m squinting in the spring sunshine and looking sweet enough to eat. Soon after the picture was taken I fell into a puddle, staining my lovely pink suit and scuffing my shoes.

Lying on a trolley in the Accident and Emergency Department of our local hospital I wonder why I’ve still got my shoes on. I’m six and bang heads with an eight year old as I run from the classroom following the going-home bell. It wasn’t the first time I’d run out of school. After the first day I decided that I’d rather stay at home. The headmistress had to shut the school gates to stop me escaping. I don’t remember much about the hospital visit, except for my shoes; brown lace-ups. It must have been winter; no buckles this time.

I’m 16 and wearing a pair of platform shoes (usually I wear gym shoes or desert boots) for a night out. They’re candy striped and pretty, but pinch my toes. From O’ Level Biology I know that foot bones don’t fully harden until we’re in our mid 20s. So the shoes we wear in previous years determine our future likelihood of bunions, corns and other nasties. My platforms hurt all the way through the The Towering Inferno and distract me from fighting off my date’s wandering hands. That evening I dump the platforms and the boyfriend; both I and my feet feel happier as a result.

White high-heeled wedding shoes mean I am lucky not to trip over my dress and fall on my face. I cling to my new husband walking down the aisle. At 21 and 22 we are both fairly wet behind the ears. I dye the shoes blue after the honeymoon, but never wear them again. Mum told me I wouldn’t. Simon, my husband, is promoted four times in as many years and I buy court shoes in a variety of colours to wear to works’ events and dinners with the boss. At my job in the local garden centre I stick to my desert boots, or flip flops.

Our years together are tempestuous. During one loud, hot argument in a Greek supermarket I throw a large red juicy tomato at him. He apologises to the bemused, shop owner, pays for the tomato and our other purchases and grabs my hand. We run back to our holiday apartment so that we can ‘make up’. I look at the tomato seeds in his hair as he simultaneously tugs down my shorts and kisses the sand off my toes. I’m still wearing my flip-flops. We grow up together and grow apart. After eight years of marriage we part.

To be continued . . .