My footwear has once again reached a low point. (Is that a type of shoe?)
I hate shoes. Boots are a joy; shoes are a pain. With shoes come ankles; with ankles come legs; with legs come effort. Effort and self-consciousness.
Christmas is coming and pretty little outfits are winking their spangles at me – and I’m buying them. I’m buying them with big boots on, that aren’t of course what I’ll wear with them. But what will I wear with them? If I don’t buy something appropriate, I’ll have to wear big boots with them. Big flat boots. Big flat boots that, when worn with a sparkly outfit, render me a hobbit.
I then go through my ‘heels’ loop. I can’t walk in heels. There’s no point in buying them. I can walk from the car to the event in them, but then I have to discard them as soon as I get there and stomp stumpily about all night in my feet. Also, because I can’t walk in them, I resent paying money for them, so I buy cheap ones which turn out to be complete rubbish. Who knows? Maybe if I could bring myself to pay more for shoes they would function like shoes.
I doubt it.
Maybe platforms are the way forward. Maybe platforms are also the way to A and E, though. I’m not used to heights.
Then I watch Strictly Come Dancing and see people in perfectly lovely shoes running about in them – flinging themselves around a dance floor with gay abandon, seemingly without a consideration of decking it. Maybe I should root out some ballroom dancing shoes and see if they are walkable in.
But for now, I banish the thought of heels from my shopping list, and imagine the balm that this would bring… and the result is a wee poem. It makes sense, I promise: