This year is turning out to be a vintage one for gladiatorial head-to-heads. The Olympics, Mucca v Macca, Kim Cattrall versus SJP, Squeeze Me Marmite v non-Squeeze Me Marmite. Gordon against the entire world. Gripping spectator sport it is, too. But it all threatens to pale into irrelevance when compared with the battle about to be waged between loafers and ballet pumps.

Not that the powers that be have noticed. For all the attention that the Centre for Policy Studies or Adam Smith Institute have paid to the matter, you'd be forgiven for thinking that The People's footwear have no bearing on anything beyond feet.

Where have these people been for the past six years? Don't they realise that shoes are a big factor in determining happiness, second only to hair? Haven't they twigged that the day a shoe broke through the £800 barrier was the exact moment at which the economy officially went into unsustainable overdrive? People may not talk about bad-shoe days in the minute detail that they discuss the endless permutations of their follicles' wayward behaviour, but that's only because they're in too much pain to speak.

Not for nothing do actors invariably invoke the Shoe Method when explaining to gullible interviewers how they go about easing themselves into character. If you've ever inadvertently (or advertently, come to that) tried on someone else's shoes, you'll know that you discover more about them in those first few seconds of your toes feeling their way around those intimate, slightly moist and often distended nooks and crannies than ten weeks of pretending to be their shrink could ever yield. So an immense amount rides on how the nation collectively grounds itself to the earth. Remember the summer of Birkenstocks, and how at ease Britain was with itself then (these things are relative)? Or how about the heels that climbed as vertiginously as sterling?

So far, so clear-cut. But it's about to get intriguingly murky: on the right we have the ultra-conservative loafer, as championed by fashion column regulars Alexa Chung, Pixie Geldof and Kate Moss. And on the, er, right, we have the ballet pump, as elegantly paraded by Gisele Bündchen and still going strong (the ballet pump that is; Bündchen's longevity is surely not in doubt) after at least four summers' reign. Neither is exactly a brave or fearless step into the future of footwear, ballet shoes having long ago made the journey from beatnik mascot to bourgeois favourite, and loafers being the ultimate in Euro-smoothie footwear. But that's probably the appeal. We've seen the future, if you can call a 2,000-year-old template futuristic, and it's a Balenciaga gladiator sand-boot that takes two hours to tie up and cuts off blood supply. No wonder the default position is something as comforting and comfortable as a moccasin or a pump.

Both have their charms. Ballet shoes obliterate the need for pedicures but can offer a glimpse of toe cleavage. They also work with skirts (see Sarkozy, Carla) and trousers. On the debit side, they're a bit old hat. On the plus side, I defy you not to feel like Audrey Hepburn when you slip on a pair, if only for those few moments before you reach a mirror.

Loafers also obviate the need for high-maintenance footcare and if Chung et al are wearing them, presumably they're cool. On the debit side, they don't look very cool. If you aren't in the fashion loop, you might mistake Chung for the class geek who never got her head round the demise of the Tory Government, when loafers were last fashionable. But perhaps in their very uncoolness lies their coolness. Now I look at Tod's pointy adjustments to the loafer (the bright primary-colour patent ones with sexy little cut-outs are very cute), there may be even more mileage in the loafer. What can this all mean for the future of civilisation?

A jarring trend in Cannes
Oh dear, Cannes ... Until about seven minutes ago the dress code at Europe's most famous film festival was noted for not being like the Oscars: not stiff, not lacquered, not bland, and bursting with quirky European actresses with zero recognition factor beyond their domestic market. Clearly this couldn't last. So enter the McCelebrity, in her McDress, McHair and McStyling. Where's the fun in that?

But one interesting phenomenon has been spotted: age dysmorphia. Mischa Barton and Bar Refaeli have been dressing like 50-year-olds, while Faye Dunaway's lips look like those of a 12-year-old. When you think about it, this is an eerily accurate portrayal of the way that things are heading among us civilians - soon the only females with frown lines will be teenagers who haven't saved up enough for Botox. Mark my words, age dysmorphia is a trend in its infancy.

BUY THIS
The Times fashion department loved the look of the black jersey Plumo Cocoon dress (also available in white), but couldn't quite believe that it really could be worn in ten ways, as claimed. Fearless investigators that we are, we've done our own research, and guess what? Notwithstanding the rather too speedily conveyed instructions on the accompanying DVD (and notwithstanding our cynicism about an item of clothing that requires instructions), we found at least ten ways to wear it. Some were more avant-garde than others, a few required leggings (unless you want to flash a Girls Aloud amount of flesh). But all exude a kind of Martha Graham classy timelessness, which kind of justifies the price. And just think of the hours of fun.
£298 (or £29.80 per dress) from plumo.com, 0870 2413590

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