operate in tiny premises. Fine men in brown coats who help
you to walk down the street. Men behind beat-up counters,
surrounded by shelves stacked with heels and soles and strips
of rubber and pieces of leather.
And their number is shrinking. There are, I’m told by
one of them, only 30 or 40 of them left in Glasgow and they
can’t, these days, even find the tools of their trade
in this country: if a machine or a tool gets broken or worn
out, the replacement comes from somewhere in England. Or from
somewhere on eBay.
Anyway, the thing is, sometimes you buy a pair of shoes or
boots and you love them and you wear them out and about until
they are worn out and about then you find that the shop you
bought them from no longer has those shoes. End of the line,
you see. But not necessarily. A cobbler can fix this with
arcane tools and some deceptively simple-looking dexterity.
He’ll make your shoes as good as new and charge you
only a few quid and you are back in business, strolling and
striding as if you’d never been away.
There is an atmosphere in a shoe repair shop: a scent even,
evocative and reassuring. And while the man and his craft
may seem like a throwback, the fact is that such skills as
his are not only as timeless as thrift, but contemporary too
like your colour-coded recycle bins. In some unassuming way,
the man that repairs your shoes also restores some faith in
the notion that life and it’s things need not be disposable
and that we need not have our heads turned by fads and fashion
and their concomitant cynicism.
In short, the cobbler keeps your feet on the ground.