Sunday afternoon, early 1994. I drove to Floral Street and parked on a double-yellow while my bewildered flatmate watched for wardens.
These boots, made by Dirk Bikkembergs, looked like nothing else I’d ever seen, and were the first shoes since John Moore’s incredible creations that pulled me gravitationally towards them. I had no money, but a week-long dopamine rush of anticipation made them an ineluctable purchase.
As I laced them for the first time, binding the foot then the ankle twice, the assistant told me he’d just sold a pair to a girl who had sold her car to buy them. At the time, that seemed to make perfect sense.
These boots, made by Dirk Bikkembergs, looked like nothing else I’d ever seen, and were the first shoes since John Moore’s incredible creations that pulled me gravitationally towards them. I had no money, but a week-long dopamine rush of anticipation made them an ineluctable purchase.
As I laced them for the first time, binding the foot then the ankle twice, the assistant told me he’d just sold a pair to a girl who had sold her car to buy them. At the time, that seemed to make perfect sense.
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