You Must Be Somewhere In London

Well I did not have them long. With apologies to The National, an American rock group that published a song whose title I am borrowing for this post, those Norwegian slip-ons that I had been waiting for were with me for only 24 hours. I took them in to have them shined you see, and the first part of my usual shine is a coat of conditioner. Through no fault of its own, said conditioner removed the antiquing from the shoes, leaving them a particularly unattractive shade of mousy brown. They are once again somewhere in London.

This state of affairs is not unheard of for bespoke shoes. As it happens I had email from a friend that same week relating the story of fox-colored suede slipons from another firm that had a cosmetic flaw and were a little tight across the arch. The maker very kindly said they would re-make them and six months later the new pair arrived in a timid (I already used mousy and a timid color is about the same) brown that had little to do with the originals. That saga continues.

I gave my friend some context by relating the story Nick Foulkes tells about his London shoemaker. He ordered a pair of summer shoes, waited some months and was told they were ready for pickup. Upon arrival he was shown a pair of half boots. Very nice half boots, but hardly summer shoes. Asked to explain the discrepancy, he was told that boots were what the maker had felt like making. He sighed and ordered a second pair, in brown this time.

To Réginald-Jérôme's point of yesterday, you can buy character but the process is not always straight-forward.