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I wanted the boy’s first shoes to be posh – but he had other ideas

Often, when I see nice clothes in the bougie shops near where I live, I entertain a mild fantasy of myself as one of those dads who garbs their child in cooler-than-cool threads. I don’t think that would be a particularly noble vice, of course, but naively imagine it could be one of those annoying eccentricities – like vaping or making jewellery – that people would forgive so long as I occasionally made fun of myself for it.

The only problem with this ambition is that freelance life has turned me into a miser, unwilling to buy any children’s clothes that aren’t made in runs of 40,000. When some snazzy jumper or beautiful hat catches my eye, I’ll invariably discover it’s priced as if it was hand-woven instore, by Richard & Judy. I don’t buy these items. No - like you, I place them back on the rack and, gripped by some odd horror that I will appear cheap, continue a discretionary period of fake ‘browsing’ to disguise my eventual exit, presumably out of a fear that the staff will know that the £79 price tag on that pair of mittens just made my soul leave my body.

I thought I’d buck that trend this week by investing in his first pair of proper walking shoes. I was told a solid, more expensive pair would be best, presumably because they’d make walking more comfortable, not because he’d be inspired to display his sweet new kicks to the neighbourhood.

In fairness, he might well feel cheated, since back when he was born we were gifted with so many clothes that he was covered head to toe in much nicer things. But I spent my entire childhood either wearing hand-me-downs from my eight older siblings, or freshly bought plastic shoes displaying non-copyright text like ATHLETIC SPORT 1999.

Such bargains weren’t just common in Derry, they were mandatory. By law, raincoats had to boast the clumpy consistency of something fashioned from melted credit cards, and teachers would do spot checks to make sure every stitch of your clothing was flammable. What need for designer T-shirts when you could support the local polyester industry for a fraction of the price? And why would anyone settle for Giorgio Armani, when there was a perfectly good George of Armagh, NI, just down the road?

Clearly such tightness is hereditary, since my boy had no interest in the spangly rubberised trainers we tried in the fancy shop and cried at the pleather beauties from a fancier one still. No, my penny-pinching progeny only had eyes for a drab pair of cloth clogs, which cost £6 and came in plastic tubing usually reserved for tennis balls and Pringles. I might not be a cool dad, but if he’s happy to save me a few pennies, I’ll let him. If that makes me a miser, I just ask you don’t judge a man until you walk a mile in his ATHLETIC SPORT.

Follow Séamas on Twitter @shockproofbeats