Mrs Pacino
kickbox
I've seen so many books about tragic childhoods recently that I decided to write about a normal one. Mine. Well. Normallish.
This is my first "chapter". I'd be interested in any comments - nobody has read any of my stuff before.
It’s always about the shoes….
The one continuing long, and never ending (and never won by me) battle between me and my mother as I was growing up was my shoes. We always had very different ideas, mine were usually something along the lines of the latest fashion, hers were the brownest, clumpiest, nastiest things she could unearth in the farthest, most dusty corner of any shoe shop we went into. Often I think even the shop assistants were surprised at the stuff she managed to find, but despite my fervent prayers for mercy, there was always a matching shoe to the one she’d dug out, and they were always my size.
I remember my first day at secondary school as if it were yesterday. Not only had I been forced to accept a lift in my Dad’s mate’s MOD Police van because I’d missed the bus, but I was clumping along miserably in a horribly old fashioned skirt, white knee high socks, and these absolutely hideous brown leather t-bar shoes with clumpy heels and thick soles. They were utterly utterly foul and straight out of the bloody 1950s. I looked ridiculous and it was the start of the continuation of the years of bulling I’d already suffered. I’d hoped that secondary school would bring a final end to the constant taunts and abuse, but no – that day merely marked the start of the second assault, and to this day, I blame the bloody shoes. Being friendless, skinny, ginger, cross-eyed and just wet probably had something to do with it, but I feel better if I blame the shoes as that was the only variable at the time that could possibly have been changed.
Oddly, my mother had allowed me a lovely pair of shoes, but I was only allowed to wear them at weekends. I had other ideas. I would put on the much hated brown clompers, walk round the corner until I was out of sight of the house, take off my glasses (nasty aviator style metal frames – really not painting a pretty picture of myself here am I?) and then swap shoes. To try and give the impression that the shoes had been worn all day, meant that I had to kick shit out of as many walls as possible on the way home but I swear, those fucking shoes were indestructible. They didn’t show as much as a hairline scuff no matter how many walls I kicked, and toes I broke in the process.
Eventually my mother bought me some new shoes, and they were marginally better than the brown clompers, and I wore them in relief. My bag was lighter from not carrying around unwanted lumps of leather and plastic too, which was a bonus.
Sadly, my bearable shoes gave in, and I remember the horror when my right shoe fell apart at breaktime. The sole came away completely from the upper and flapped about miserably like an old woman who talks too much without putting her teeth in. As I wasn’t carrying spares, I had no option but to flap home at lunchtime to change them. I had another bearable “weekend” pair at home that I planned to put on. However, as they say, the best laid plans of mice and men…
…halfway home, a car pulled up alongside me and to my horror there was my mother. Asking me what exactly I was doing walking towards home halfway through a school day. I showed her the dismally flapping shoe and she made me get into the car and took me home. She then, of course, gave me the nastiest shoes ever – a kind of moccasin thing with a slight wedge (I know, dreadful even for the early 80s), insisted I put them on and bloody drove me back to school.
My entire childhood and teens are punctuated with shoe issues. I remember when it was the fashion to wear lace up shoes with a stacked wood effect heel. God I wanted a pair so badly I can still feel the longing and desire in my heart just thinking about it now. My mother took me shoe shopping and allowed me the stacked wood effect heel. I was over the moon. However, she wouldn’t allow the lace ups, and I had to had the buckle (yep, t-bar) version instead. So despite my attempts to fit in, yet again, I looked completely different to everybody else and the bullying continued as before.
When I asked my mother why I couldn’t have the same as everybody else, she told me that she wanted me to be an individual and not be the same as everybody. Noble thoughts, but it merely made my life hell, forever in the wrong shoes, with hand-knitted sweaters in not quite the right shade of green as the “official” school uniform colour.
I remember when everybody had a Harrington jacket. I absolutely desperately wanted one. And I got one. But only when everybody else had moved onto the “dustbin man” style donkey jacket. I got one of those too, but only after everybody had moved onto something else. It really was the story of my teens, desperately wanting to be the same as everybody else, so that I could blend in and be unnoticed, but thanks to my mother, always sticking out for the wrong reasons and being open to any bullying people fancied shoving my way.
I think the most poignant shoe memory was from when I was around 7 or 8. It was my first communion, and for those who aren’t aware, little girls get dressed up like brides for the occasion, veils, trains, the lot. I was incredibly excited. I couldn’t wait to get all dressed up. Then my mother uttered the words of doom “Oh I’ll make her dress, it’ll be much cheaper”. And that was it. I went from a state of huge excitement, to utter dread and horror. I was fed up – even at that age – of standing out, and this was one day when I thought I’d be the same as the others.
The other girls had bought dresses, from shops like British Home Stores, with sequins, embroidery, and hoops. I absolutely desperately wanted a hooped skirt. I wanted to swirl around in one, and be like all the women in films I’d seen –mainly her in The King and I. I gave no consideration to the practical side of it, like using toilets, but I didn’t care, I wanted a hooped skirt. But it was not to be. I had a plain white dress with a skirt coming from a plain bodice with a bit of a frill on the bottom and long sleeves. Over the top a CROCHETED shawl then the veil thing. There were some Irish gypsy girls attending our ceremony and they looked like they’d had the entire stock of Pronuptia bought for them. They had hoops, trains and huge veils and looked absolutely stunning. I just looked shit.
The worst bit? The shoes. My mother bought me a new pair of school shoes, painted them white and dyed them back to school shoe colour the next day. So they wouldn’t be wasted. T-bar, of course.
I guess that kind of explains why now I buy shoes constantly. If I find a style I like, I will buy it in several colours and it doesn’t matter if I don’t wear them ever. I never want to find myself in a situation where my shoes have fallen apart and I will never, ever ever, wear a brown t bar shoe – not even if it’s designed especially for me by Jimmy Choo. Sorry Jimmy, but it just ain’t gonna happen!
This is my first "chapter". I'd be interested in any comments - nobody has read any of my stuff before.
It’s always about the shoes….
The one continuing long, and never ending (and never won by me) battle between me and my mother as I was growing up was my shoes. We always had very different ideas, mine were usually something along the lines of the latest fashion, hers were the brownest, clumpiest, nastiest things she could unearth in the farthest, most dusty corner of any shoe shop we went into. Often I think even the shop assistants were surprised at the stuff she managed to find, but despite my fervent prayers for mercy, there was always a matching shoe to the one she’d dug out, and they were always my size.
I remember my first day at secondary school as if it were yesterday. Not only had I been forced to accept a lift in my Dad’s mate’s MOD Police van because I’d missed the bus, but I was clumping along miserably in a horribly old fashioned skirt, white knee high socks, and these absolutely hideous brown leather t-bar shoes with clumpy heels and thick soles. They were utterly utterly foul and straight out of the bloody 1950s. I looked ridiculous and it was the start of the continuation of the years of bulling I’d already suffered. I’d hoped that secondary school would bring a final end to the constant taunts and abuse, but no – that day merely marked the start of the second assault, and to this day, I blame the bloody shoes. Being friendless, skinny, ginger, cross-eyed and just wet probably had something to do with it, but I feel better if I blame the shoes as that was the only variable at the time that could possibly have been changed.
Oddly, my mother had allowed me a lovely pair of shoes, but I was only allowed to wear them at weekends. I had other ideas. I would put on the much hated brown clompers, walk round the corner until I was out of sight of the house, take off my glasses (nasty aviator style metal frames – really not painting a pretty picture of myself here am I?) and then swap shoes. To try and give the impression that the shoes had been worn all day, meant that I had to kick shit out of as many walls as possible on the way home but I swear, those fucking shoes were indestructible. They didn’t show as much as a hairline scuff no matter how many walls I kicked, and toes I broke in the process.
Eventually my mother bought me some new shoes, and they were marginally better than the brown clompers, and I wore them in relief. My bag was lighter from not carrying around unwanted lumps of leather and plastic too, which was a bonus.
Sadly, my bearable shoes gave in, and I remember the horror when my right shoe fell apart at breaktime. The sole came away completely from the upper and flapped about miserably like an old woman who talks too much without putting her teeth in. As I wasn’t carrying spares, I had no option but to flap home at lunchtime to change them. I had another bearable “weekend” pair at home that I planned to put on. However, as they say, the best laid plans of mice and men…
…halfway home, a car pulled up alongside me and to my horror there was my mother. Asking me what exactly I was doing walking towards home halfway through a school day. I showed her the dismally flapping shoe and she made me get into the car and took me home. She then, of course, gave me the nastiest shoes ever – a kind of moccasin thing with a slight wedge (I know, dreadful even for the early 80s), insisted I put them on and bloody drove me back to school.
My entire childhood and teens are punctuated with shoe issues. I remember when it was the fashion to wear lace up shoes with a stacked wood effect heel. God I wanted a pair so badly I can still feel the longing and desire in my heart just thinking about it now. My mother took me shoe shopping and allowed me the stacked wood effect heel. I was over the moon. However, she wouldn’t allow the lace ups, and I had to had the buckle (yep, t-bar) version instead. So despite my attempts to fit in, yet again, I looked completely different to everybody else and the bullying continued as before.
When I asked my mother why I couldn’t have the same as everybody else, she told me that she wanted me to be an individual and not be the same as everybody. Noble thoughts, but it merely made my life hell, forever in the wrong shoes, with hand-knitted sweaters in not quite the right shade of green as the “official” school uniform colour.
I remember when everybody had a Harrington jacket. I absolutely desperately wanted one. And I got one. But only when everybody else had moved onto the “dustbin man” style donkey jacket. I got one of those too, but only after everybody had moved onto something else. It really was the story of my teens, desperately wanting to be the same as everybody else, so that I could blend in and be unnoticed, but thanks to my mother, always sticking out for the wrong reasons and being open to any bullying people fancied shoving my way.
I think the most poignant shoe memory was from when I was around 7 or 8. It was my first communion, and for those who aren’t aware, little girls get dressed up like brides for the occasion, veils, trains, the lot. I was incredibly excited. I couldn’t wait to get all dressed up. Then my mother uttered the words of doom “Oh I’ll make her dress, it’ll be much cheaper”. And that was it. I went from a state of huge excitement, to utter dread and horror. I was fed up – even at that age – of standing out, and this was one day when I thought I’d be the same as the others.
The other girls had bought dresses, from shops like British Home Stores, with sequins, embroidery, and hoops. I absolutely desperately wanted a hooped skirt. I wanted to swirl around in one, and be like all the women in films I’d seen –mainly her in The King and I. I gave no consideration to the practical side of it, like using toilets, but I didn’t care, I wanted a hooped skirt. But it was not to be. I had a plain white dress with a skirt coming from a plain bodice with a bit of a frill on the bottom and long sleeves. Over the top a CROCHETED shawl then the veil thing. There were some Irish gypsy girls attending our ceremony and they looked like they’d had the entire stock of Pronuptia bought for them. They had hoops, trains and huge veils and looked absolutely stunning. I just looked shit.
The worst bit? The shoes. My mother bought me a new pair of school shoes, painted them white and dyed them back to school shoe colour the next day. So they wouldn’t be wasted. T-bar, of course.
I guess that kind of explains why now I buy shoes constantly. If I find a style I like, I will buy it in several colours and it doesn’t matter if I don’t wear them ever. I never want to find myself in a situation where my shoes have fallen apart and I will never, ever ever, wear a brown t bar shoe – not even if it’s designed especially for me by Jimmy Choo. Sorry Jimmy, but it just ain’t gonna happen!