
I am not very fond of owning things. I prefer having two of everything just in case something breaks down late on Friday evening, and I cannot have enough of books, records, CDs and DVDs. But those are a special case. In general, I tend to own few rather than many items of anything.
At present I own three pairs of shoes, but I only use one. One pair is so past it that it only really serves for house slippers; one is handsome but uncomfortable, and I only use for things like job interviews and formal events (as if!); and one does all the work. I don't suppose it will last much longer - the heels are showing signs of wear - but I love it, and I have an idea that I will keep it, for memory, even after it has gone beyond use.
I bought this blessed pair of improbably bluish fake leather footwear out of despair, on a rainy October afternoon, as another pair was literally breaking apart around my feet; and since then, it has performed miracles. In wind and storm and rain - literally - walking up and down London for all sorts of errands, in snow up to my heels, it has kept my feet warm and dry. I bought it for a minuscule sum, fully expecting to have to buy another soon, during - as you know - one of the worst autumns of my life; and it has lasted me through much of the worst winter in living memory. Everything else may have failed, but my shoes went on. I don't know whether this is pure chance, or whether it is that somewhere craftsmanship and love for one's work still run like a hidden river; but if I ever could meet the men who made my shoes - probably some penny-an-hour Chinese workmen, half-poisoned by the chemicals they use - I would love to shake their hands.