I bought a pair of what I call smoking slippers at a market in Hay-on-Wye. Leather uppers, rather elegant in an old-fashioned sort of way, and decidedly slipperish. The sort of thing one might wear while sitting in a leather armchair, reading the newspaper and wondering whether it was too early for a whisky.
I rather liked the look of them. They seemed just the thing for a gentleman of advancing years who still retained some sense of sartorial dignity. Very comfortable. Very smart. And almost entirely unworn.
The problem is that they have backs.
Now, I appreciate that having a back is generally considered a desirable characteristic in footwear. It prevents your shoes from falling off, which is probably quite important if you're mountaineering or running for a bus. But these are slippers.
And the entire point of slippers, as far as I'm concerned, is that you should be able to put them on without having to bend down, use your hands or undertake any other physical activity beyond vaguely pointing your feet in their direction. If I have to bend down to put them on, they're not slippers. They're shoes operating under false pretences.
Hay has now decided to sell them. Not because there's anything wrong with them, but because I simply never wear them. Their principal function has become occupying space.
Which reminds me of my father.
He used to dismiss slip-on footwear as something worn by old men. A sure sign that someone had reached the stage in life when personal appearance had finally surrendered to convenience.
Then, as he grew older, he started wearing them himself. When I pointed out the inconsistency, he explained that they were practical.
Practical.
Not old man's footwear any more. Practical footwear. The transformation was apparently complete, and entirely logical.
And now, somewhat to my amusement, I find myself agreeing with him. I'm beginning to understand that ageing isn't necessarily a matter of abandoning your principles. It's more a process of discovering that some of them were bloody silly in the first place. Particularly the ones involving bending down.
I appear to have reached the age where I understand exactly why old men wear slip-ons, but not yet the age where I remember to buy them. There's something faintly ridiculous about purchasing a pair of elegant slippers, admiring their craftsmanship and then discovering that they're too much trouble to put on.
After all, the purpose of slippers is comfort, and comfort ought to begin before you've actually got them on your feet.
I suppose this is how it happens. You don't wake up one morning and announce that you've become old. You simply make a series of entirely rational decisions about convenience. And eventually you look down and discover that you're wearing precisely the sort of footwear your father once ridiculed.
The worrying thing is that he was right.
Not when he called them old man's footwear, of course.
When he called them practical.
Although I suspect those are increasingly the same thing.
