Graduation ceremonies are long, aren’t they? I must thank my sainted mother and my beloved for enduring the two plus hours to see my split second of glory. But as a social study, it was fascinating.
It was the shoes that sparked it. I have feet like a coral reef walker and shoes are the bane of my existence. My feet may look sturdy, but they bleed. They blister and suffer. I can find any number of things to wear, but unless they suit thongs, Birkenstocks, runners or my faithful boots, I’m in dressing hell. Discovering Doc Martins in my youth is my downfall. Choosing that path in the footwear road led to the inexorable spreading of my already large feet, denying me the joy of footwear freedom. It is my cross to bear.
I had a pretty pair of flats and a fear of falling, but as we sat through the different faculties accepting their honours, the fear faded. Accounting was first. I was most impressed by the skills of few young ladies with extremely high wedge heels, tied flimsily with ribbon round their slender little legs. I wondered idly why their calves weren’t more developed with all that weight to carry, but other than that it was looking like a long day.
Next was Business Management. A few more pairs of giant wedges, but more clip-clopping smartly in 10cm stilettos, sharp at heel and toe. Fierce looking things, they were. No fear from the wearers. Envy started to tickle. I, too, wished to be smart and efficient and clip-clopping surely. And fearless.
Then we came to Marketing. Oh my goodness, how do they do it? Those amazing girls in their gravity-defying shoes: not a stumble, not a hiccup, not a thought of danger. No less than three pairs of red patent leather god-knows-how-high heels. A greater variety of shoes climbed the stairs to the stage, and the tickle was turning to a cough. All the stories were all there — Cinderella, The Wizard of Oz, The Red Shoes. The Elves and the Shoemaker had been hard at work. And I was Little Goody Two Shoes.
But Advertising, oh my goodness, one girl had Christian Laboutins! Kid you not. Red soles were all I saw. I’m blind to the rest because my deep dark secret is a dangerous desire for the shoes no-one can afford. Or walk in without years of practice, of which I have none. Go on: ask me about Jimmy Choo… The money may be better, but if all my money would go to shoes I can’t walk in, I think I’ve chosen the right profession. Besides, books are cheaper, and don’t give you sore feet. And the Jimmy Choo one was a good read.
After that peak, Journalism started to bring some sense of gravity back to the proceedings: a few wedges, a few fierce heels, but more sweet flats than anything else.
Suddenly there was whooping. I snapped out of my daze, the world came back into focus, my breathing calmed. It was the Communication graduates. These guys were the jocks. Too much noise to notice shoes, let alone hear names. My mother sat thin-lipped.
Us in Book Editing and Publishing wore sensible shoes. I got blisters. And a diploma. Nobody fell.
Belinda Holmes
29 December 2011
