A letter from a reader

At 68, there were eleven pairs of shoes by my back door and I wore one of them

I counted, one wet Tuesday, because the rack by the back door had got so full the dog could not get past it. Eleven pairs. Sandals, two lots of court shoes, some boots, a pair of trainers I bought for a walking holiday I did not go on. And one pair of old slip-ons, worn through at the heel, sitting on top, because those were the ones I actually put on. Every day. I am 68, I am not a writer, and I had not thought of that as odd until I counted.

Then three different women asked me about my shoes at the garden centre café on Saturday, and I have said the same thing three times, so I am writing it down once.

Here is how a woman ends up with eleven pairs and wears one. The other ten were bought because they looked right. And they did look right, in the shop, sat down, for ten minutes. Then I wore them to the shops and they rubbed by the greengrocer, or pinched by the bank, and they went back on the rack for sitting down in. The old slip-ons did not rub and did not pinch, so they went to the shops, and to the doctor’s, and, I am ashamed to say, to my grandson’s nativity, and I told myself nobody looks at feet.

Ten pairs that looked right and hurt, and one pair that fitted and looked like I had given up. I wore the one pair.

Nobody decides to live in one old pair of shoes. It happens one sore afternoon at a time, until the good ones are furniture and the bad ones are your feet.

Then Jean walked the whole garden centre in a pair

Jean next door has feet like mine, wide, and opinions like mine, strong, and in June she came round in a pair of soft sand slip-ons with a round toe and a little cord across the front, and I said, those look comfortable, which from me is not always a compliment. She took one off and handed it to me. It weighed nothing and it bent in my hand. She said, I have walked the garden centre twice in these and had a scone in between and not thought about my feet once. I said, that is a lie. It was not a lie.

They are called the Gweneth, from Manchester Boutique, a small British boutique that has been quietly dressing women our age for a few years now. I ordered the sand that evening, fully expecting to send them back.

They did not go back. The old slip-ons have gone in the bin, which Sylvia says she never thought she would see.

What happened at the garden centre

I wore them on Saturday with cropped navy trousers, walked the whole place twice, including the bit at the back with the sheds, and had a scone in between.

Three different women asked me where they were from before we had paid for the tea. And Sylvia, who has known me thirty years and does not hand out compliments, asked if I had been somewhere nice first. From Sylvia, that is practically a medal.

Here is why they work, as far as I can tell. The toe is round and wide, so nothing is pinched, which is where every one of the ten pairs went wrong first. They are soft and they bend with your foot instead of arguing with it, and there is a cushioned feel underfoot. They weigh next to nothing. They slip straight on, no laces, no buckle, no bending. And the little knotted cord across the front is the only decoration on them, which is exactly enough to make them look like a shoe I chose rather than a shoe I gave in to.

I have had them on every day since. To the shops, to the allotment gate, to church, and to the doctor’s, where the receptionist, who has seen the old pair, said nothing but looked.

Three things worth knowing

One. Wide is the whole trick. Give the toes room and the rest of the shoe can be as soft and light as it likes. Ten pairs on my rack never understood that. This one does.

Two. Plain is not the same as giving up. A round toe, a sand colour and a little cord. It goes with the navy trousers, the jeans and the one dress I own for good days, and it looks like I meant it.

Three. Two colours, honest sizes. The sand I own, and a black, from a UK 3 to an 8 and a half, the same wide easy shape the whole way. I went back for the black. Jean has both and says the black is for funerals, which is Jean all over.

About the price

I am careful with money and I will not pretend otherwise, so I will tell you the price was the bit that made me suspicious.

The Gweneth is £25.95. It was £52.00.

My first thought was that there had to be a catch, because a shoe this soft that also looks like something usually costs what a good pair of boots costs.

There is no catch that I have found. They are a small boutique selling directly, so there is no department store taking a cut in the middle, and they run a summer sale to shift the season’s stock before it turns.

I do not trust perfect scores, so I read the reviews before I ordered. Just over three hundred of them, sitting at 4.2 stars, which sounded like real people, so I read on. One woman had written, “Wide enough for my feet at last and they still look like a proper shoe. Worn them every day for three weeks.” That was the one that decided it for me.

If you were stood at my kitchen table

If you were stood at my kitchen table with the kettle on and you asked me, this is what I would say.

If you own eleven pairs of shoes and wear one of them, you are not being sentimental about the old pair. You have been buying shoes made for feet thirty years younger than yours, and quietly paying for it at the greengrocer. This is a shoe made for the feet you have, and it looks like something you meant to put on.

Two practical things. The sale is on now, and the middle sizes go first. And once the summer stock has gone, that is it until next year.

There are twelve pairs by the back door now. I wear one of them. It is not the old one.

Pat