With the amount of city hopping I have packed in during the last few weeks, I would normally have a host of random thoughts and sightings to ponder over but, as it goes, there isn't typically a lot to catch your eye when caught in the middle of paranormal summer weather that feels like windy autumn. Except the pavement.
Controversially, however, despite my line of sight being tunnel-visioned to the sidewalk to avoid the wind and rain of May, I have been inadvertently immersed in a Boot-camp that has left me mesmerised about the misguided steps of the feet on our streets, wondering….when it comes to putting on their shoes, where do our men get so lost between fashion forward and stepping back in time?
I do confess to focussing on a good outer presentation, a standard no-one should apologise for and, indeed, I go as far as to suggest that our men may have an easier battle in looking good – a good suit, good jeans, tailored clothing (even for casual dressing), in general, will excuse many an imperfect physique and really showcase those fortunate to be less than imperfect. But this week, as I console myself at the state of passing soles, I wonder ...do men just get bored by the time they get to the shoes and socks, or do they really believe that one style fits all? What is it that makes men think they can go through life with a single pair of shoes?
Now, we are not talking sub 25 year olds today (indeed there is a certain male stylista of any age that can rock sneakers casual or formal). No, this is the grown up shoe problem…
The unexplained je ne sais quoi in the male Adult-shoed brain that thinks that ye-old-faithful pair of black elongated pointy shoes they relentlessly wear for work are inter changeable with jeans and suits. The misguided belief that having a fall-back pair of brown antiquated leather (probably more pointed for the weekend and unlikely to be real leather) at the back of the wardrobe keeps them ready for every fashion. And the Zoolander of foot-fashion faux-pas - the flash of an overtly exuberant (aka pass me my sunglasses) brass buckle, sometimes two and painfully often three.
By this stage I am at the verge of a fashion intervention or a scream for the style gods of Sweeney and Smith to descend from the rooftops! For once glad of the winds and rain, I remained eyes-down for fear that an elevated line of sight may lead me to the crimes of denim that would undoubtedly be hoisted high with a belt as garishly buckled as the clown shoes and, as I continue on my path of shoe sin I wonder ….just where did the penchant for pointy start and end?
Do our boys not realise that having a buckle is admitting adult velcro and, if your shoes are so pointed they start to curl up like a jester, they are indeed the joke...? Indeed, at what point does man fashion DNA turn DOA?
‘Til next time, Pandora
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