Mark Palmer on how to get out of a tight squeeze
We credit Elizabeth I for all sorts of achievements. Turning down Phillip II of Spain’s proposal of marriage in 1559 was astute. Encouraging Sir Francis Drake and Sir Walter Raleigh in their explorations paid dividends.
But so too was recognising the importance of shoehorns – known variously in the past as ‘shoespooners’, ‘shoe schlipps’ and ‘shoe tongues’.
Between 1563 and 1566, Her Majesty ordered 18 of them from her shoemaker, Garrett Johnson, and promptly dispensed them to members of her household who were struggling every morning to put on their boots. Then, three years later, she acquired a further three, made in steel from the blacksmiths Gilbert Polson and Richard Jeffrey.
The shoehorn’s origin goes back further. A ‘schoying horne’ is referred to in literature from the 15th century – and strikes me as a more lyrical and transformative name for such an important piece of kit.
Mind you, until recently, I had entirely overlooked them. Not any more. My collection gets bigger with each passing
year, as bending down to put on a pair of proper lace-ups becomes yet another frustrating burden of old age.
I haven’t quite reached the point where I engrave my shoehorns – as was the habit a few hundred years ago. The inscription on one reads: ‘This is Ambres Bvckells shoeing horne made by Robart Mindvm Anno Domini 1598.’ But I am becoming something of a collector.
My current favourite – which hangs by the front door ready to help out at any time of the day or night – is made from spruce and was bought in Norway at an arts and crafts shop within the Vestfjorden region.
It’s a beauty, smooth throughout, thin at the top and then widening into the all-important spoon shape at the bottom. It cost me around £20.
Originally, shoehorns were made from animal horns or glass; luxury ones fashioned from ivory, shell, silver or bone. Strictly on cost grounds, I have several plastic ones – but don’t like any of them. You can get two-foot-long ones for less than a fiver with the Timpson name on them: I’ve always had a soft spot for Mr Timpson because he employs
those who have spent time in prison. The longer a shoehorn, the easier
it is to use. A four- or five-foot job needs no bending down at all – and I have seen some retractable shoehorns, which strike me as pointless. A proper, long shoehorn deserves to stand tall in amongst a stack of walking sticks.
Shoehorning has of course become a modern term, suggesting a degree of coercion or pressure to fit into or deal with a tight situation. I dare say one can be shoehorned into a shoebox of a flat or some such.
A Dutchman called Martien Tuithof is the current Guinness Book of Records champion when it comes to shoehorn collectors. He has amassed nearly 1,600 since 1977. They now reside in the Zijper museum in Schagerbrug.
Through my work, I get to stay in quite a few fancy hotels and the first thing I do is seek out a shoehorn loitering in a drawer. The temptation to squirrel a nice one away along with the single-use conditioner is becoming hard to resist.
