New Shoe Hell.

“Alice, I will do anything, anything, but please I beg you not that!” so pleaded Hubby the other morning as we lay in bed.
“What’s the big deal?” I answered grumpily, “Other men do it and I don’t want to do it by myself”.
“You’ll enjoy it more on your own, really love, I just can’t stomach it. In fact I feel a panic attack coming on just thinking about it”.
I sat up, “Don’t you think you are being a tad over-dramatic? Honestly, I’ve only suggested that you come with me to buy new school shoes and you’d swear you were being coerced into some deviant and transgressive act”. Hubby at least had the grace to look sheepish.
“Yeah well, you’re a better man than I am Gunga Din. I’ll get dinner ready for when you get home, I’ll re-grout the bathroom tiles, I’ll weed the garden, I’ll...”, his voice trailed as I got out of bed and pulled some drawers on.
“Ok”, I said, hopping around our bedroom as I attempted to get the other leg in, “I get the picture, but I’m not taking them all then. I may indeed be a better man than you but even I know my limitations and taking all four children to buy school shoes, is most definitely one of them”.
Leaving the youngest and most unpredictable child behind with her father, I drove away in silence. Not only was 11.30 far too early for teenagers but the thought of a day spent traipsing after their mother, buying items for school had rendered my eldest children mute and irritable. The six year old was more up-beat, her only request being, “Can I have a doll in my shoes mum?”
It really shouldn’t have come as any surprise but when I was on the verge of vertigo given how many floors we’d driven up and then corkscrewed down again in the new shopping mall car park before we found a parking space, I began to fear that perhaps every parent with school age children had had the same idea.
Jones’s was the first stop. They were duly measured and the young assistant brought a selection of boxes, removed the shoes and attempted to persuade my children’s feet into said shoe. I felt Prince Charming’s despair; none of the shoes fitted.
“Well why don’t they fit?”, I asked the 13 year old.
“They rub” she answered, stonily before hissing in my ear, “and they are seriously hideous”.
My son wouldn’t even try his selection on and the six year old choked on a sob, “But they haven’t got a doll in”.
“That’s Clarke’s”, said the assistant automatically and without emotion, as though this was the thousandth time she been stymied in her sales by a disappointed school girl, hell bent on a plastic doll in her heel.
“I’m sorry”, I said, gathering my kids, “This is going to be a long day”. I walked out briskly, holding onto my six year old daughter’s hand firmly. My other daughter was near me but my son was doing his level best to lose us in the crowd, shuffling his feet slowly and meandering. It was all I could do not to clip his ear.
We could hear Clarke’s shoe shop before we could see it and by the time we eventually climbed the stairs to the children’s department, the noise was cacophonous. An assistant met us with a number and wasn’t even able to say, ‘take a seat’ as there weren’t any. Not one. Only harassed parents, screaming toddlers strapped into pushchairs and other children of varying ages. Boxes, shoes, socks and tissue paper lay everywhere and everyone: parents, staff and children looked close to tears.
One little girl was having a pair of black, lace up shoes fitted. Finally she succumbed to a sob.
“But they are so ugly”, she blubbed, “They look like special needs shoes. I want girly ones like Hannah. Hers have got lights.” Her mother looked on, defeated.
We waited in this retail hell for forty minutes before we were served. My son, who has size 12 feet was allowed to go downstairs to the adults section as there was nothing available for him in size Sasquatch. My girls, thank God, were measured and fitted without further delay and with a pair they, and more importantly I, liked. The younger had the all important doll and the elder a pair that weren’t too ‘academic looking’. Her words not mine.
I went downstairs to find my son leaning in the doorway.
“Well?”, I asked, impatiently, “What’s happening?”
“I wouldn’t be seen dead in any of them”. God give me strength. We still had uniform to get.
As we walked, stony faced back towards the mall, my son’s girlfriend and her best friend walked towards us. Suddenly as though a magic spell had been cast, my son’s recalcitrant manner was transformed into joy, effusion and animation. Smiling from ear to ear, he hugged her tight. Time for a break. We left them outside, to court, whilst the rest of the family sipped frappucinos in Starbucks. The best friend was left to stare at her hands.
Revitalised after a sit down, it was time for Round 3. The lovers said goodbye by way of a lingering snog under the escalators but my son did rejoin us with a spring in his step. Barratt’s provided the shoes, shiny black winkle pickers and Derry’s with brown skirts, a nasty jumper and a green blazer.By the time I arrived home I was fit for nothing, except a lie down, alcohol and guilt induced TLC from Hubby. It was not forthcoming. There was a note on the fridge, ‘Gone to Mags and Co for BBQ. Sorry about dinner. Promise I’ll cook tomorrow. Hope you had fun. Love you xxx’. Fun? Fun, my arse. Plotting my revenge? Now that was fun..