By all accounts, Reginald John Blacklock lived a very ordinary life. Known simply as John to his friends, he was characterised predominantly as diligent, strongly principled, often prickly, and entirely dependable.

John was born in 1942, with eyes of blue, and the doctors said his birth was far too fast. His heart stopped twice, but yet he survived, and as he took his first breath, his mother took her last.

As a boy, playing in the wide-boughed roads of north Hayes, he had taken himself seriously. The kind of child who would watch other boys delight in imagination, whilst internally scowling at their frivolity. Never quite understanding the fun they derived, always finding more joy in souring theirs.

When they rolled and rumbled, tumbled and tossed, on the thick asphalt beside their pebble-dashed homes, he would scold their whimsy. Did they not realise, he often thought, how much effort their mothers were repeatedly forced to endure, in patching their grey wool flannel shorts?

Upon passing the age of 11+, he passed the 11+, securing a place at the middling Stansfield County Grammar School for Boys. To say he thrived would be an exaggeration. He coasted with little exertion, but also with little connection.

Bugle Master of the Combined Cadet Forces, the only student trained on the Dewey Decimal Classification system, and the fourth member of the school’s Mathematics Olympiad team.

He held titles that were as envied as they were exalted: that is to say, of very little status, but equally grudging respect.

He approached each with a seriousness, an earnestness, and a sincere sense of pride. An anomaly to his peers and teachers alike, they viewed him with a kind of sympathetic curiosity. Strange, unfeeling, dispassionate to people, but passionate with tasks.

What really delighted John, but of course, what he never expressed, was the immaculate pride he found in his uniform. The maroon blazer, with the angled waist pockets that cut upwards across his hips with an understated defiance. The crispness of his shirts, whose collars he starched each evening.

The ochre tie, fastened always in a half-Windsor, with the tip always grazing the edge of his belt. And the gabardine raincoat, of a deep royal blue, a rare gift from his always unforgiving father.

In not knowing himself, not understanding himself, or perhaps not having a self to present, John found a clarity in the elegance of good tailoring.

He liked order. He liked the idea of sophistication. He liked things born from great rigor, and the virtuosic craftmanship that often accompanies them.

Upon leaving school, he attended a middling university. Upon leaving university, he joined a middling clerical firm. And diligent in his work, dutiful to his duties, he so passed the next 40 years.

Hayes changed much before his eyes. Extraordinary shifts in demographics, culture, technology, and property. He welcomed this as openly as could be managed, albeit with a little bit of grumbling, and a lot more confusion.

Neither family nor romance ever made an entrance onto the stage of his life. But that was okay. He found meaning throughout, in his own John kind of way. A well-made bed, a properly executed cup of tea. And, of course, his beloved suits.

His salary was comfortable, wavering between the 40^th and 30^th percentiles. Enough for a family man to get by on, with a mortgage and children to support. With no children and no mortgage, John had few fiscal responsibilities. So, with his modest funds, he frequented the finest tailors that lined London’s streets. Gieves & Hawkes on St. James’ Street. Kilgour on Savile Row. And, when seeking footwear, he never looked beyond Church’s.

Colleagues noticed little of the detailing of his suits, or the care he applied to his image. The local people thought him to be eccentric, but most simply never noticed him at all. But always, without exception, John knew what he was wearing, and took recursive pleasure in the majesty of his clothing.

Reginald John Blacklock passed away on the 17^th of January, 2025, from complications related to acute bacterial pneumonia. He suffered quickly, and died quicker, but was said to have remained stoic to the end.

Unsurprisingly, his estates were in fine order. The house was to be sold, with the proceeds donated to a small charity that supported veterans struggling with PTSD or, as John insisted on calling it, “battle fatigue”.

As for his suits and shoes, he did not want them wasted. But nor did he want them auctioned off. Instead, as one last joke to the world, he requested for his threads to be donated anonymously and without fanfare, to the charity shops that beset the town of Hayes.

…

The above is my first attempt at writing fiction in at least ten years. Like everything else published here, it was written freely and shared with little revision. Drawing on some already beautiful stories – Akira Kurosawa’s “Ikiru”, Spraggan’s “Tea and Toast” – it is the imagined prelude to a recent minor event in my life.

Now nearing the end of cabin crew training, I found myself with neither a brief case nor a pair of shoes becoming of my delightful Oswald Boateng-designed uniform. A new friend of mine, who loves all that is suave and branded and classy, has continually recommended to me a brand called Church’s. Inferring how expensive they were from the reverence with which he spoke, I unconsciously swatted away his advice.

Thank you, Sha, but no thank you. The charity shops of Hayes town centre are much more up my alley.

Strolling around after work one day with Marcos – an Italian-Brazilian, who has spent the last fifteen years in Japan, and has now joined BA –, we stopped by Cancer Research. There were two bags: one with a split handle, and the other stained by coffee.

The shoes didn’t show much more promise. I know nothing of dress shoes. I have never owned a nice pair, nor given them any real thought. But I knew that the shelves before me were filled by a liquorice all-sorts assortment of faux-leather monstrosities, befitting only giants and elves.

At the top, at the back, however, were a pair that looked different from the rest. Sturdy leather, delicately perforated with detailed broguing, mounted on a foundation of hardened hide and cork. Practically brand new. Marked for £12.

Opening them up, I looked inside. Exactly my size. And imprinted upon the insole, in gilded gold? Northampton, England Church’s English Shoes. Well I’ll be damned.

What an extraordinary amount of serendipity. I opened up my phone, and found quickly that they retail for £940.

The craftsmanship is like nothing I’ve ever owned before. One of Britain’s oldest and most-esteemed shoemakers, Church’s history dates back to 1617. Entirely hand-made, they consist of over 250 distinct steps of manufacture.

Acquired by Prada Group in 1999, they retailed consistently for £470, but had their price doubled in 2021. I’ve always loved charity shopping. A modern-day treasure hunt, searching high and low for the rare canary in the coal mine. These shoes are, without question, the most bountiful treasure I shall ever find.

Since taking responsibility of their ownership, I have spent much of the past week exploring the world of high-end crafted shoes.

I have found out that the infamous Kingsman line, “Oxfords not Brogues”, is actually factually incorrect. Oxfords refers to a closed lacing system – i.e., the eyelets are sewn under the vamp – whereas broguing is merely a kind of decorated perforated detailing. Thereby, it is not a matter of one or the other. In fact, the shoes I now enjoy are both Oxfords and brogues.

I have also learned (or perhaps, reinforced my belief) that the price tag on luxury clothing is merely whatever the fashion house determines it to be. Honestly, such is the craft of these shoes, that I could see how they’d be worth £500. They also will refurbish the shoes (for half of the total cost) whenever they run down.

But Prada’s doubling of the price overnight reflects the vice-like grip, that is both taunting and admirable, that these corporations have over people’s wallets. So great is the desire for demonstrative status that people will pay through their noses for a chance at it.

Mostly though, I have found myself asking: how the hell did these shoes end up in that charity shop? I have no idea, and I doubt I ever will.

But I like to think that as I strut the aisles of a Boeing 777, I will walk in the shoes of Reginald John Blacklock. And that wherever he is, he’s smiling on down – delighting, as the Harry to my Eggsy, in the joy I have found in what were once his.