I. Shine.

Confessions of a Boot Boy

While cleaning my wife’s little boots yesterday I began thinking of how much I’ve always loved the task. It’s a satisfying process to scrape off mud and detritus, to brush vigorously before applying polish, waiting for it to soak in for a few minutes, then buffing to a high shine with a soft brush and cloth. I sometimes indulge myself further by applying a layer of Dubbin, a greasy salve that helps waterproof and further shine and protect the shoe.

When my four children were little it was my Sunday afternoon job to polish their school shoes in readiness for the week ahead. I loved the whole process and the reason for doing it. It was a tangible symbol of my love for them and a demonstration of it to the world I was sending them out into. It had a value akin to that of clothing them in a warm, waterproof coat in winter, evidence that I was doing my job as a dad. Something that would have made my dad proud.

It also connected me somehow to their experience of the previous week. Putting my hand inside the shoe to check for holes or a folded insole, examining the way the heels wore down and checking for any defects that might make their wearing of them uncomfortable, was all part of the routine. There was a mindfulness to the deliberate process. I relished the dream-like state I found, staring out of the utility room window at the trees in the garden as I polished over the stainless steel sink.

My dad taught me to clean shoes, it’s a dad thing I guess. To his generation a pair of shiny shoes were a statement of pride. It was a visual confirmation of their standing in society, or at least of their aspiration to it. They were suspicious of trainers, canvas shoes had no gravitas in their opinion, and even suede shoes, for a man, were suspect. I only remember him owning one pair of shoes that he couldn’t polish — corduroy casual summer shoes he dismissively labelled ‘sgitie dala adar’ — bird catching shoes. My mum bought them for him in a vain hope that he might relax when wearing them.

He cleaned my shoes alongside his own and my mother’s every Sunday morning. If it was dry he’d do them outside the back door, balancing the brushes and little tins of polish on the wall of the elevated rockery. If it was wet, he’d put a piece of the recently read Sunday People on the floor to catch any…