In my teens I was a cadet, a member of a quasi-military youth organisation for boys, (long before segregation became a dirty word), the focus for which was all things concerning the Royal Air Force. Every Friday evening we would learn about aircraft past and present, rudimentary principles of flight, how to march, on parade, and press a sharp crease into our unwilling trousers, a throwback from a uniform already abandoned by the Service. We happily accepted a nascent form of military discipline, if not enforced, then strongly represented by the peer pressure of the more senior boys. 

Every November we would attend the wreath laying ceremonies at the local cenotaph, the pathos of the moment never lost on any of us and it was a matter of great pride to turn out, scrubbed and immaculate, bearing a respectful demeanour of awe, in giving thanks for the sacrifice of the fallen. 

Perhaps the most outwardly visible sign of our combined respect and pride was to wear a pair of army surplus boots: weighty in unyielding leather, black with stiff laces and soles and a toecap like some oversized Oxford pattern shoe that absolutely demanded to be shone to the brilliance of a black mirror. 

I would spend hours diligently rubbing small circles on those toecaps, mentally willing them to shine with spit and polish, finger tips blackened through the cloth, knuckles and tendons sore from the pressure. Yet, for all this effort, they were nothing if they were not “Tackety Boots”. Tackets were a small stud, or hobnail, with an enlarged head, like an upturned cone, its point neatly sawn off. Only the addition of tackets to that unbending sole would render the boots complete, worthy of parade and a grudging admiration. Nailing on tackets was easier said than done; it took a steady hand and some grown-up nous, neither of which I possessed in abundance. 

Luckily there was an elderly gent who lived nearby and who was happy to undertake this manly task. He was a lovely old chap who had a beautiful black and white Collie. I would take her the marrowbone my mother had used to make soup and I swear her eyes used to light up in expectation as I walked up to the house. Mr Graham had a garden shed and tools, a cornucopia of ancient hand tools that wouldn’t look out of place today in a museum cabinet. Above all he had a last. A curious contraption, at least to me, on which he would place the boot, and purposefully beat the tackets into the sole with a satisfying whack of a ball pein hammer. Neat, in curved rows, as if they too were lined up on parade; a thing of wonder and admiration. 

Now, suitably attired, I could strut about in those tackety boots, scuffing them on the pavement to induce a shower of sparks and revel in the clickety click they made as I walked, feeling inches taller and being heard from a hundred yards and more. 

Even then they were a relic from the past; heavy, impractical and even uncomfortable, but in spite of it all they were in the ‘moment’. They were a source of absolute pride, each step of clunking weightiness another step towards impending adulthood. I find it curious now that I think of them and the memories they invoke, with such unexpected fondness.