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bought from old factories. These trollies used to be full of beautiful soft Italian leather, suede and rainbow rolls of silk satins. I’d cut them and then mould them using these.’ He points at a set of wooden pigeon holes that stand to the right of the patio doors, all still with original handwritten labels from the tool factory they came from. Some pigeon holes have various vintage wooden shoe lasts in different sizes – others house various tools: scalpels, long handed hammers, tacks and the like. ‘I finished my last pair over a month ago,’ he says wistfully as he pulls out a beautiful pair of emerald green court shoes from a box that is sitting on the table behind him. They have a curved Victorian heel and a vintage brooch on the front. ‘But I couldn’t sell them. The few customers that came to our closing down sale said they were too expensive for something that looked like a pair of leprechaun shoes.’ A flash of annoyance passes over his face and then he sniffs. ‘An extremely elegant, fashion conscious leprechaun, with impeccable taste, obviously.’ I smile and nod.
    ‘David these are exquisite.’
    He shrugs like he just doesn’t know anymore. ‘Dad was forever telling me to keep my designs simple and not too out there. “You’re not in London now!” he’d say.’ He exhales and I can see he’s mentally berating himself.
    I continue looking around the workshop. It’s like I can imagine David working here – I can almost hear the noise of the workshop, smell the leather and visualise him and his wife, their heads bent over their work, desperately making more shoes as their money – and customers – frittered away. Just like the wife and the shoe maker in the famous Brothers Grimm fairytale. It makes me feel desperately sad – but also strangely excited.
    In front of the pigeon holes is a medium sized trestle table with three steel framed, wooden backed machinists’ chairs. ‘My granddad replaced my great granddad’s benches with these in the 1930s. Granddad was not amused at the “newfangled designs!”’ David smiles sadly – as if he’s aware that every time he tells the story, it is fading into obscurity. ‘I’ve still got the other five chairs from when Dad used to have more assistants.’
    ‘Aren’t your shoes hand-stitched? The ones in the window had such intricate details.’ I ask, hoping he answers in the affirmative. “Hand-stitched” sounds so much better than “machine made”. But both are better than “factory made”.
    He nods proudly. ‘Hand-stitched every single one – right down to the embellishments. I also do the pattern cutting, clicking, skiving, lasting – all of it by hand.’ He looks downcast for a moment. ‘It’s a dying art though. My wife has been nagging me for years to sell my designs off to someone who can run them off in a factory.’ He smiles sadly as he looks around. ‘Perhaps I should’ve listened.’
    I can see there are clear areas designated around the room; his design area is to the left of the French windows, there’s a long wooden textile mill table in the centre of the room.
    He walks over to it and picks up a cut-out of a pair of uppers. ‘This was what I was working on when our funds ran out,’ David says, showing me a piece of paper with a sketch of a glorious looking pair of peacock blue, satin stilettos with tiny crystals sewn over the toes. ‘There just didn’t seem any point in finishing them.’
    ‘But these are beautiful,’ I say. ‘I can imagine a glamorous MGM musical star from the 1950s wearing these, but they’re on-trend, too.’
    ‘Thanks,’ David smiles wistfully. ‘I was inspired by Doris Day’s outfit in Love Me or Leave Me . Helen Rose, what an amazing costume designer... Mum and Dad used to watch all the old films for inspiration – I was brought up on them.’ He gazes into the distance.
    ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘no point moping about it. I’ve just got to move on.’
    He continues with his