Quite

Swagger

Look, this is a chapter about boots.

But I need to say from the off, it’s not actually about footwear.

Boots are not just something you put on your feet. When you shop for them, they’re not a ‘these will do, add to basket’ and when they’re part of your outfit, they’re not a small addition, an afterthought.

They are the whole look. The reason you’re out. The reason he looked at you funny. The reason you feel like a rockstar, walking backstage at the O2.

I know what you’re thinking – ‘She’s gone and lost it now. Maybe it’s the fumes from the fake tan.’ Sure, that’s completely possible. But let me expand.

Boots are, above all, about attitude. They are not simply objects that stop your feet getting dirty. Of course there’s your hair and your heavy armload of bangles that turn your wrists green (correct, totally worth it) and your big sack of a bag (the same one you’ve had since the 90s, something totally cool about that) but your real calling card, your actual, well, assertiveness comes from your feet.

If you can walk into a bar with a look that says ‘I can use ornery in a sentence but I also just might have a trick pelvis’ then that’s coming from your boots. They are the reason you can turn up slightly late for a lecture at university and give the impression you’ve just done it with your boyfriend behind the bins, just got shortlisted for a literary prize, just listened to the latest Rolling Stones track because you’re an old friend of Keith’s. These things won’t be true but you might want it to seem that they are. And this will not be achieved through your choice of pencil case, or because you’re wearing a lip stain or a nose stud. This, my friends, is radiating from your feet.

You are walking to meet a date at the cinema for the first time. You want to waltz up to the kiosk (don’t actually waltz, unless of course you’re seeing La La Land) with all the mustiness of Debbie Harry or Nick Cave. That’s not just in your fingerless gloves (although I do applaud) and it’s not in your hoop earrings. Apart from your sparkly eyes, or slight air of disdain, the thing that will stay with him is your all-round vibe and that is emanating from below your knees.

I knew boots were special when I walked past Shelley’s when I was fourteen and saw some pointy, aggressive, spiky ones in the window. ‘Can we go in Dad, please can we go in?’ I begged.

‘Don’t be mad baby, it’s getting late and we still need to get peppercorns’ (people were obsessed with these in 1986).

They were ankle-high with a livid, thin heel. Even then, staring though the window (in my flat, black, round-toed shoes from Dolcis – please) I knew they could change my life. ‘There you are my babies,’ I thought to myself. ‘You’re going to make me feel wholly different.’ They were so grown up, so rebellious, so unbelievably cool. I had never seen such a thing. They were a passport to a different world.

Here’s the thing, you do not need to buy new jeans unless they become literally unwearable – I wear the same ones I bought fifteen years ago (yes, I can’t do up the button); t-shirts and sweaters generally look better if they’re old, beaten, torn and slightly mothy. Coats keep the cold out and, although they have to be fantastic (nothing collarless please), you’ll take it off when you get to the party/pub/dinner. You can say absolutely all you need to say with a pair of boots. They instil a power, a fuck-off attitude, a certain defiance. If you pick right (I have gone into some detail on here) then they alone will give you all the confidence you need.

Have you seen Desperately Seeking Susan? Well, she trades in her magical and lucky leather jacket for a pair of sparkly stiletto bunched-up boots. Exactly that. That’s what we’re after, that’s what every woman needs.

I had a bad row with my mum over a pair of boots. I was sixteen. We were away on holiday in Spain and it was unbelievably hot. It was boiling, seriously sweltering, and we were going down to the hotel restaurant for dinner. My brother is eight years younger than me so this was unusual; because he was little we’d normally just get chips in our room and he’d be put to bed early and I’d read (often in the bathroom so as not to wake him up) and then I’d turn out the lights when I was tired. But this night was different, it was fancy, an occasion, something to remember. We’d talked about it all day; he’d had a nap in preparation for staying up late and I was excited about trying something called calamari that everyone was talking about.

It was a fisherman’s catch buffet night and I was a little bit in love with a boy who was there with his family. I’d stared at him solidly for six days straight at the pool. I’d laughed too loudly at breakfast so he looked round. We once bumped heads in the entrance hall when I was walking in and he was walking out (in my mind we were getting married) so I laid out my outfit extremely carefully. Over the miniature thimble of grapefruit or tomato juice we were going to lock eyes and that would be it, my first full-on boyfriend (I was, uh, a slow developer).

Did I mention it was hot? Like 100 degrees. I wanted to wear my black sundress and my (wait for it) knee-high, fake suede, platform, studded boots. They were from C&A and they were pure magic. It was my plan, it was part of the story. He’d see me in them, he’d realise that I was fashionable, nonchalant, on trend and practically an adult. I backcombed my hair, I put on some lip-liner (yes, it was chocolate brown, boof) and I was ready to go.

But my mum, who was always pretty casual on clothes and what I wanted to wear (she never needed us to look ‘just so’, she didn’t have the time), said no. She explained it was scorching; I’d look nuts and I should wear flip flops like everyone else. I tried to plead, I begged, I said it was important but she just refused. You’re not going downstairs, in this heat, in those clunky, sweaty boots. Don’t be ridiculous.

I nodded sulkily and we went down for a prawn surprise and other glamorous things but I couldn’t shake it off. I didn’t speak and grew more and more upset. I just sat silently looking down at my hands. Normally I was bouncy, usually I’d make everything nice and generally I always behaved.

After twenty minutes hot steam began to pour from my mother’s ears. ‘What is it? Why are you ruining supper? Why aren’t you talking?’

‘I wanted to wear my boots,’ I said quietly.

‘Fine, go get them and then please come down here with a smile.’

I went to my room and changed my shoes. Sure, I looked weird. Yes, I was melting and truthfully the faux suede never really recovered. But did I have a great night? Absolutely. We ate fresh fish, I stared at the boy I liked, my family ended up playing Uno while eating lemon ice cream that was served in actual lemons and I went to bed happy. Was it about the boots? Was it about the boy? Not really. It was about something much more important – it was about confidence. Even then, as a spotty, heavy fringed, patchy tanned, glasses-wearing teenager, I knew that in those boots I had swagger.

And swagger is what every girl and woman deserves. Everything else is hard enough. We’re on the hamster wheel of life. Yes, she’s got her PE kit, yup, bridge is on for 8pm and what’s that? You’ve both given up meat, dairy and anything raw? No problem, I’ll rustle up some, um, warm nuts. Our boss wants another meeting about when to have another meeting and our parents have said they’d like us to go away with them on a camper van holiday for the bank holiday. The traffic is gridlocked, the papers are full of bad news, the bank has decided that our overdraft has gone on for too long and the kids have seen a mouse in the kitchen. We rush and we negotiate and we hustle to keep everything on track – which is all made just a bit easier if we are doing it whilst wearing a pair of truly great boots.

Perhaps you already own these boots and you have been nodding along in agreement. If you have yet to meet your most empowering, enabling footwear, please use this list to help you identify the boots that are right for you.

THE LEGAL SECRETARY

This is a heavy, blocked heel option with a no-nonsense attitude. Wear with black crepe trousers for work and with an oversized polo neck and jeans at the weekend. An aside: if boots can be worn every single day then that’s better. Don’t save boots ‘for best’ – there is no best.

THE GROUPIE

You want to feel like you might be going back to the drummer’s place for a heavy goblet of vodka and some filth? Where the music will be on really loud and people are getting up to mischief on the pool table? No, of course we’re not actually going to do that (it sounds like a lot of effort and way too messy), but these high-heeled ankle sex boots will make you feel like the option is available.

THE NEW MUM

You can’t shift the baby weight. You’re boring yourself rigid about why she likes broccoli but not carrots and the school run is genuinely killing you – I’ve just dropped her off, how can I be going back again so soon? You haven’t been on a night out in months and while you’re having sex with your husband you’re doing the weekly shop in your head. These are not ballet flats (never fine, unless you’re actually doing ballet) and they’re not slippers (guys …). They are still great boots but they do not involve laces (designers, if we had time to do our laces as well as everyone else’s we’d let you know), you do not have to sit down to put them on and they can be thrown by the front door. Excellent with jeans and a massive shirt (that you might have slept in).

THE INTELLECTUAL

These are akin to a classic brogue but slightly more interesting than a Chelsea boot. They’re best in tobacco or cinnamon (real boot colours) and look much better when worn for years. Buy and then give them to a friend’s dog to gnaw at. Leave them out in the garden so they get a bit soiled and wear them hard. Day in, day out. Wear them if you’re walking in some fields (it might actually be worth a visit to the countryside) and, when they’re broken in, then they will come to the fore. Brilliant when paired with a battered satchel and overly long scarf.

STYLES TO BE AVOIDED

- The fringed moccasin boot (only OK on Kate Moss and Pocahontas, absolutely not fine for anyone else)

- The almond toe (too indecisive: either a square or a point, what is this?)

- The over-the-knee (cheap, even though unbelievably expensive)

- The boot with a logo (we get it, you’ve got money. Pipe down)

- The kitten heel (if you want your calves to look like massive hams then go ahead but otherwise it’s a solid no)

- The sock boot (make it stop)

- The cowboy (fine if you’re in a rodeo and even then …)

- The Ugg (look, I know they’re comfy but so are onesies and adult nappies)

A Small Lecture About Art

We were sixteen, we were deeply pleased with ourselves, extraordinarily annoying and thought we already knew everything. We’d all picked history of art because we thought it would be a doddle. Yes Miss, we know about paintings. Yes Sir, we get that sculpture might be made of marble. Duh. Yes, we can spell Michaelangelo (wait a second, is that right?) and of course we go to galleries (do they serve cider there and are they full of cute boys?).

For context – I went to an all-girls school bang in the centre of London, we flew to school on the tube, had a full burgundy uniform (even tights #speechless). We were a hotchpotch of badly executed home-highlights, Juicy Fruit gum and an unhealthy obsession with whether to go to third base.

Our skirts were rolled up too high, two of us wore fishnets (burgundy ones, yes, they exist), we passed notes to each other and we stared out of the window dreaming that Simon le Bon would waltz in and save us. Can you imagine anything worse than teaching us? Exactly. Me neither.

Our history of art teacher was Mrs Dale. She was pristine, she was calm, she was together. She wore a high bun and at least eight different shades of brown. She hardly raised her voice, she never yelled, she rarely tutted. She was kind, she was quiet, she had pin-sharp focus and she believed in loafers and the Renaissance.

One morning, we were (as usual) not paying attention, almost certainly whispering about lunch – I’ll swap a Marathon bar for a bagel, sure – and she said, ‘Right class, nothing seems to be going in while we’re here. Let’s go and see something, shall we?’ She shot up from behind her desk faster than a whippet on crack and marched out of the classroom at high speed. Confused and still talking about the merits of a Double Decker versus a Flake, we all got up to follow her.

She sprinted to the school’s front door and we practically had to run to keep up. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ we mouthed as our teeth clattered together – it was a freezing January day and there was no time to get our coats. It was windy, we were swearing under our breath, she was striding with purpose. She trooped us to St Paul’s Cathedral. We didn’t understand, we asked if this was a planned trip, we occasionally called out, ‘You alright, Miss?’ but we followed her in and were immediately hushed. The chatting stopped.

‘Now, girls. I know lunch is important, I know boys are irresistible, but you need to understand what we’re studying here. Breathtaking architecture, mesmerising art, wonderful sculpture. That is the greatest privilege of all.’ Her hands were on her hips (this meant business we’d later learn).

She continued. ‘I was young once, I understand you just want to gossip and natter and have fun, but look up. Don’t worry about lipstick and bands and anything else at this moment. I implore you, girls. Just. Look. Up.’

We’d walked past the cathedral a million times, we’d sat on her steps while scoffing Monster Munch ogling boys from the school opposite, we’d taken her for granted. The inside of St Paul’s is (and I really do hate this word but it’s the only one that will do) awesome. It’s enormous, it’s majestic, it’s classical architecture in its purest form and the dome is 365 feet high. The columns feel like they reach space, the nave could house fifteen buses (this is not strictly true but it feels like it) and it took our breath away.

Mrs Dale encouraged us to take it all in while she explained Lord Admiral Nelson and Sir Christopher Wren were buried there. She let us gawp at the detailing while telling us that Martin Luther King chose St Paul’s to give a sermon in 1964. ‘It only just survived the blitz, it’s a masterpiece, don’t forget this. The whole design came from one brain. This is on our doorstep, art is alive and if I need to distract you from tittle tattle to wake you up, then so be it.’

Of course we didn’t want to look like we’d turned, we didn’t want to look too impressed. But something happened that day. There was nothing funny to hide behind. We couldn’t take the mick, we couldn’t whisper and laugh. It was just us, looking at Wren’s masterwork. We stayed too long, we missed lunch and we were in the palm of her hand from that day forward. She talked to us like we were grown-ups, she fed us with information without thinking it wouldn’t go in. She didn’t panic about note-taking and underlining essay titles. She didn’t sweat the small stuff.

Not long after our spontaneous trip to St Paul’s, Mrs Dale casually took us to the National Gallery to stand in front of the Arnolfini Portrait for 90 minutes one day after school. Then, the following year, she successfully fought with the headmistress for money to take us to Italy. ‘They need to see it,’ she was heard yelling just outside the lunch hall. It was 1989 and we were seventeen and we went to Venice. The whole history of art A level group – about twelve of us. It was bats.

Some of us had been away with our families but it was usually beach holidays or camping – we were about to experience something else entirely. When the plane landed and we got into a boat (wow, they weren’t kidding, there really is a lot of water, I thought it was, like, one river) we were blown away. We were there for two nights and three full days. We’d never seen anything like it, a whole city, like, on water (we said ‘like’, like, all the time).

We went to the Accademia and gazed up at the Raphaels. We ate all the gelato we could find and barely slept, staring out of the window gazing at the church spires and little gondolas. We ate pasta in tiny backstreets. ‘Look at that little bridge over the canal, look, they live there, in that apartment, the one that you get to by boat. Can you imagine?’ we squealed. This was a whole other world, this was a living, breathing, artwork that doubled up as an actual city. We wafted round St Mark’s Square feeling romantic and grown up and were just completely wowed. We shared an £8 coffee (so adult) and flirted with any poor unsuspecting boy we could find. Ciao! T’Amo! I mean, Venice should have ejected us.

Mrs Dale must have loved seeing our faces and gaping mouths. ‘Come on girls, here’s the Rialto, keep up, I’m now going to show you a Gorgione that might make you realise the power of storytelling through painting. And wait till I tell you what an x-ray of this painting revealed. Come on, come on.’

On the last day, we were all crowded round a table tearing through pizza and she said, quite indifferently, ‘You have 30 minutes of free time now and then I’d like you to meet me at the back of the Basilica Maria Gloriosa dei Frari. We’ll stay there for a bit and then collect our bags and go to the airport.’ So we spent the next half hour mooching around the tiny shops looking at elaborate masks and small animals made of glass – can anyone lend me some lira? I think I’ll get my brother this tiny penguin – and then we slowly wended our way to the Frari.

It’s not a beautiful church. It’s large and hefty and absolutely fine but compared to some others in Venice (see San Giorgio Maggiore or Santa Maria Formosa) it is, at best, a B. It’s large and red brick and although built in the sixteenth century could also be new. We slunk through the main doors at the end of the nave wondering where our teacher was and talking about if we had enough money to buy chocolate at the airport. The church was dark, it was enormous and a bit cold. Someone remembered she said to meet us at the back. Come on gang, last one. Bagsy have the Walkman on the plane first. God that pizza was good. I wish they had a heater in here. Now, where is Mrs D? We were done, we were sleepy, we were already back to life as normal and we just thought we’d get this out of the way and then get home. And then something happened. To be specific, Titian happened.

The Assumption of the Virgin is huge – it’s 22 feet tall and it towers over you; the figures are larger than life-size, in every way. The Virgin Mary is being propelled up to god in heaven. I am not religious but I would believe in anything looking at her. It’s a whirlwind, a painting that doesn’t stand still. As with all of Titian’s work it’s the colour that winds you, that makes your legs give way. The red, the blue, the golden light – it is not of this world, it is not what we usually see, it is not mortal. We couldn’t imagine this was real.

You see, you can’t believe it’s been created by human hand. The Virgin Mary looks like she’s alive, her clothes hang like velvet, she’s looking up, god is waiting for her. Beneath her, St Peter and the apostles are moving, they’re alive, they’re agitated, they’re angst-ridden, they can’t believe what they’re seeing and this broke with all tradition. It’s also in its rightful home: Titian painted it for this very church and this very spot (so often we see altarpieces in galleries, not in their ‘natural habitat’). There is such emotional power, such energy, such life, such force.