Heel thyself
Mark Palmer T am buying a pair of shoes. And this is 1 something I have never done before. Not really. Not at a Savile Row tailors where the shop assistant asks you questions such as: 'Would you say you are conservative by nature or are you more of an extrovert who likes to be noticed?'
Bit of both, frankly. But it's more a case of reaching a certain age and realising that I have never been properly shod. Worse, I've seldom bothered to polish my shoes or been interested in what other people wear on their feet. Then, a few weeks ago, a snappily dressed man from our local audio systems shop came over to install a big, brash flatscreen TV in time for the rugby World Cup and I couldn't help noticing that he was wearing spectacular brown shoes with a sheen on them like William Hague's pate.
Which is why I am standing in the shoe section of Kilgour (founded 1923) trying on fudge-coloured loafers designed like a power boat. They have a band across them but it's pushed back further than is usual on shoes of this style, leaving a good length of shoe that tapers swankily down to the toe. Sleek and narrow. Modern. I like it — so does the shop assistant, but then Kilgour's Italian creative director, Carlo Brandelli, shows up and we have a three-way conference. Apparently, this is what happens when you buy shoes costing £295.
'The style is fine but the colour is not you,' says Carlo. 'It will tell people that you are trying too hard. You need something more subtle — possibly dark blue suede or simple black leather.' But I want the fudge, not least because this kind of defiance would amuse my late mother, who brought me up to believe that brown shoes should never be worn after 6 p.m.
The deal is done. The assistant packs the shoes individually into cashmere bags that in turn are transferred to a huge carrier with Kilgour's name on it. I was going to take the Tube home but what's another £12 for a cab when you've just broken a habit of a lifetime? And anyway I couldn't wait to put them on and didn't want to appear overeager in the shop by walking out in them. In the back of the cab, I pull off my Ford Mondeo treads and put on my Porsche replacements. 'They're quite smart but I hate the colour,' says my wife, back home. 'And it's not always attractive when a man obviously is so keen to show everyone that he has spent a lot of money on his appearance. Are they comfortable?'
Not sure, to be honest. I hadn't given comfort much thought but now you mention it, yes, they are extremely comfortable and I am sure they will outlive me by quite some margin. Good shoes do. I still have several pairs of my father's shoes and one or two of my grandfather's. They sit in shoe-trees at the back of the cupboard because they are too good to throw out — but I can never wear them because they were made by Lobb's of St James's Street especially for their respective former owners.
This really got me thinking. It's high time I had a pair of lace-ups that I would be happy to wear all day and most of the night if necessary, shoes crafted specifically for my feet — made-to-measure. I phoned a friend who knows about these things, and she said I should go to G.J. Cleverley & Co in the Royal Arcade, just off Old Bond Street. And that I should ask for George.
That's George Glasgow, who took over the business when George Cleverley died in 1991, aged 93, after making shoes for everyone from Rudolph Valentino to Gary Cooper and from Humphrey Bogart to Terence Stamp. Cleverley spent much of his childhood selling bootlaces and polish in Essex, before joining an army boot factory in Calais during the first world war. He was still working virtually until the day he died.
'No one has a pair of feet although we think nothing about going out and buying a pair of shoes,' says George. 'So, it's no wonder shoes can be uncomfortable. And when you get older, comfort is the most important thing in a smart pair of shoes. If your feet are not right, your head's not right.'
He sits me down for my consultation. I want black Oxford brogues. And do you want a full brogue, a semi-brogue or a quarter-brogue?' asks George, showing me examples of each. Eventually I opt for 'black calf Oxford stitched cap', to give my chosen model its official title.
Then a charming young man from Finland arrives to take my personal details. I stand on a double page of a sketching book and Teemu-Peka Leppanen — who went to shoe college in Finland and came to Britain ten years ago — moves a pencil around the outside of my feet, before picking up his tape measure and noting down every possible detail of my instep, heel, toes, arch.
'We will be back in touch in about four and a half months,' says George. 'At that point we will ask you to come in for a fitting. That will be when you make a final decision on the design. We may do a second fitting and then the shoes should be ready about eight to ten weeks after that.'
'That's quite a long time,' I tell him 'We use the exact same method as 100 years ago,' he says. 'Nothing about the shoe is machine-made and a number of different people will have worked on it by the time it's finished. And I promise that once you have one pair of shoes made for you, you will want a second and a third.'
I fear he might be right. Sartorially, I have turned a corner; financially, I am staring into an abyss. Hardy Amies was speaking the truth when wrote in his 1994 book, The Englishman's Suit, that 'it is totally impossible to be well-dressed in cheap shoes'.
Kilgour, 8 Savile Row, London Wl, tel: 0207 734 6905; www.kilgour.eu. G.J. Cleverley & Co, 13 Royal Arcade, London Wl, tel: 0207 493 0443; www.cleverley.co.uk.
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