That’s when I saw Jean.   Pigtails, glasses, paying attention.  I thought:  “She’ll do.”

I’ve hardly ever had to correct my Keeper’s behaviour, not even when she was a girl. I still remember the day I first met Jean. Seems like yesterday.

Marple Bridge Primary. There’s a geography field trip to the moors round Todmorden. Of course in those days field trips were proper field trips. Nowadays a day trip to Alton Towers and you get an A level in “Leisure Studies”.

Mr Jones gave us the usual sort of briefing: “Don’t forget your packed lunches, a waterproof coat and Sensible Shoes…” That’s when I saw Jean. Pigtails, glasses, paying attention. I thought: “She’ll do.”

The thing is some shoes pick entirely the wrong sort of Keeper. They’ve only themselves to blame for the consequences. Take the pair that chose Sandra Bullock.

We’re up on the moors, Mr Jones telling us all about Marram Grass. It’s a good deal more interesting than most folk realise. Sandra Bullock’s nowhere to be seen because she’s still struggling up the hillside in a pair of flip flops! Flip flops!? They’re not sensible shoes.

Twenty five years later where’s Sandra Bullock? I’ll tell you where. Signing on, pushing a baby buggy round Market Street and telling every passer-by that her car’s just been towed so please could they “lend” her 50p.

Twenty five years later where’s Jean? Own house, good job, possibility of promotion and a Nissan Micra, fully paid for.

You see when shoes chum up with a Keeper, it’s supposed to be for life. Of course a Keeper’s free to change their footwear. But the actual shoes stay the same – unless the shoes decide to leave, which of course they never do.

As I say Jean is –she was- sensible. Not that I get much thanks from her for all the years of service. No Kiwi polish for me: an occasional rub down with an own-label brown polish is as good as gets.

One Saturday not that long ago me an Jean had a major row. The nub of the case being that Jean’s Grandma had given her three hundred pounds in cash to treat herself. So we’re out shopping in Manchester. Spend a little, save the rest for a rainy day. At least that’s my plan.

We’re heading down Deansgate, only just as I’m expecting Jean to turn left to the bank, her ladyship does a right, and we’re veering towards those silly boutiques on King Street. We end up outside a window display, and Jean’s obviously got malice aforethought to go inside. I’m livid, so when she tries to move, I give her toe a sharp nip. She looks down like there’s a stone in her shoe. Then she tries again. This time I squeeze her ankles, hard as I can. Then she tries again and I shout up, “Oh no you don’t, my girl! You are not blowing a week’s wages on Dolce and Gabanna, whoever they are. If you want new clothes, get ye to Dorothy Perkins!”

Of course when shoes speak the keeper never actually hears what they’re saying. It just sort of goes directly in here. {INDICATES HEAD}. It’s a bit like a funny tee shirt Jean bought in Brighton one time. It said Dogs have Masters, Cats have Staff. I couldn’t have put it better myself concerning a shoe and its wearer: the feet may do the walking but as to who decides where to walk… {INDICATES SHOES}

To be blunt, I put Jean’s bad behaviour down to broodiness. A woman’s hormones are like the sand in an hourglass, and in Jean’s case there’s more sand in the bottom half than the top. That’s why I’ve been on at her for ages to buck her ideas up regarding the search for Mr Right.

One Friday lunchtime she had the perfect opportunity. Only she blew it. Jean and the rest of the work gang are assembled in the White Lion. They always adjourn there on Fridays. All except for Positive Annie, who pretends to stay in and work, but actually reads back issues of Cheshire Life as soon as we’ve gone.

I was under this sort of trestle table affair trying to avoid splinters from the floorboards. Beats me why the brewery had to get rid of that nice axminster. There’s the usual office chit-chat – and opposite me there’s a lovely pair of brogues wearing Tim. Tim’s about Jean’s age and I say to Jean, “Jean, you could do worse.”

Then Tim lets his leg brush against Jean’s ankle, sort of accidentally on purpose. I’m not keen on men getting over-familiar, but seeing as it’s Tim I try to withdraw in a firm yet slightly flirtatious manner. Only before I can do any sort of flirting, Jean’s legs fly back of their own accord, like she’s just had a nasty electric shock.. I can see from the look of the brogues that Tim’s disappointed.

It’s just then I notice a totally new pair of shoes under the table. Pink stilettos. Well technically they’re flats, but hardly suitable for the office ambience.

Turns out the stilettos belong to a new recruit. Her name’s Bea, she’s a solicitor and she’s telling everyone some amusing anecdote. Jean’s listening to every word and we even end up late back from lunch.

I blame Bea for what happened next. Over the next few months the routine of our little office community began to disintegrate. Mr Pollard, who’s old enough to know better, conspired that his green audit pens kept conking out. Just an excuse to visit Emma Jones in the stationary cupboard. Before the year was out, Emma Jones was Mrs Emma Pollard. Tim left to take a “year out” in Southeast Asia and Positive Annie now goes to the pub on Fridays. As for Jean!

She’s always popping up to see Bea. Just checking facts, at least that’s her story.

And Jean’s fiscal prudence has gone for a Burton. She’s forever off to the shops, It takes all my strength to make her walk into the “correct” i.e. cheaper shops.

I was just getting used to the new order. Then one Friday ….disaster! Bea comes over to Jean and says, “I’m having a do round mine tonight. Why don’t you come?” and before I can voice my opinion –which would have been “no thank you”, Jean smiles and says, “yes.”

Bea lives in Hebden Bridge. Funny, you can see up to the same moors from there where Jean and I had that first school outing.

At Bea’s party there were lots of odd looking people all having too much to drink. One chap was from Leeds University. He made the punch - with alcohol from the chemistry labs or so he said. I’m tempted to report him to Customs and Excise.

So Jean has three glasses of the punch and I nip Jean’s ankles to stop her drinking a fourth. . She takes not a blind bit of notice. Don’t know why they say drink goes to you head. It doesn’t it goes to your shoes. In the end -what with the drink and the noise- I can’t steer Jean neither left nor right.

The guests leave one by one and we’ve definitely missed the last train. Bea and Jean sit down. There’s Brandy and some odd smelling cigars, then they’re on the sofa gossiping and giggling like teenagers.

Bea announces she’s got a surprise waiting upstairs and she disappears. I hear Bea shout, “You can come up now,” and rather than me telling Jean to stay where she is I find it’s her legs forcing me up the stairs!

And nothing, nothing could prepares me for the sight in that bedroom. There’s Bea wearing nothing but the Pink Stilettos, smiling up at the ceiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world, legs raised to towards the moors, the left shoe pointing towards Halifax, the right one towards Todmorden. I think I’m going to be sick, I go all dizzy and, mercifully, I pass out.

The latest is Jean and Bea are buying a new place together. Chorlton-cum-Hardy. I won’t be joining them. I’ll go to a nice girls’ school. A private school. One with uniforms and homework, where it’s still headmistress not head-teacher. A place where they still have geography field trips. And the night before the field trip, echoing down the polished corridors, I can already hear the headmistress declaring: don’t forget girls, sensible shoes, sensible shoes.