Doc Marten's were the iconic footwear of my adolescence, both a subcultural marker and a dare to Toronto's skinheads, whose sport was beating up other kids and taking their Docs. There was a whole hanky-code for the laces, a million different meanings for the leather colors. Today, they're just another made-in-China high-street brand, surrounded by hedge fund scum who're squabbling over who gets to steal its soul, but every now and again I pass a window and see a pair of Docs that stop me and make me stare, agog. Deconstructed Docs, Paisley Docs, and now Velvet Docs, and of course, Docs with this summer's ubiquitous spikes.
