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Go For It - Shoemaking

There's an old Scouse saying - 'Never scrimp on your boots or your bed it's where you spend most of your life' - which comes in useful when you're trying to justify your fourth pair of kitten heels in as many months. To your average shoe junkie, the bed part is a drag and best ignored - it's a different kind of person altogether who get their kicks in DFS, New Malden. No, as everyone knows, you're far more likely to find our sort getting high on heels down New Bond Street. But the high street has its limits, and there are times when the most arduous search won't yield what you're looking for. In this situation you have three options: You can wait for the sales, when you can afford to go designer. You can (cough, splutter) make do with what you already have. Or you can make your own. It's not as hard as you might think. Really. Not when you've got two days, all the necessary equipment and expert shoemakers Melissa Needham and Kirsty Prescott on hand to guide you through the process. You come away form the two-day course in their East End workshop with an insight into traditional shoemaking skills, a pair of quality handmade shoes and the not inconsiderable buzz that comes from having made them yourself.

Don't expect (as I did) to be reproducing Jimmy Choos on your first day. As a novice, your choice of shoe is limited to three (perfectly acceptable) styles. Straps and backs are difficult, so these are all variations on your basic mule. You can, however, choose your own fabric, which surprisingly, is just about the hardest part of the whole process - the haberdashery department is nerve-racking territory for the inexperienced (the problem being too much choice, and the fact that most material on offer is seemingly aimed at colour-blind geriatrics). By comparison, the shoe-making process itself is a doddle. Much of our time is spent carefully cutting, hammering and glueing - and there being a pair of shoes at stake here, I'm unusually proficient. In fact, I realise I'm enjoying myself. Hunched over a wooden last, white apron on and mallet in hand, I feel - to my inexplicable delight - like Pinocchio's dad. And gratifyingly, it's quite hard to go wrong. Kirsty and Melissa carefully explain each step and classes are small, meaning there's lots of one-to-one attention. By 2pm on the Sunday, I've got a rather smart pair of tartan mules, and a new-found belief that I'm 'good with my hands'. I'm a happy lady.

July 2000