So, about 5 weeks ago, in one of those easy domestic accidents, I slipped downstairs. For a brief moment, through the quite incredible amount of pain provoked by bending my big toe one way and the rest of my foot another, I had a vision of what might happen if I did myself a serious injury and was found, weeks later, half-eaten by the kittens. Then I lurched into the kitchen, collapsed into a chair and sat there trying to decide whether to faint, throw up or go to sleep, while the kittens tried to soothe me by climbing my leg. Adrenaline does funny things to you at 7am.
In the grand tradition of not bothering hard working NHS doctors over mere trifles, I have not yet taken medical advice. My reasoning was: (a) if it’s a broken toe there’s nothing they can do about it; (b) if it’s a broken bone in my foot, there’s nothing much they can do about it; (c) if it was a really serious injury it would hurt more. I managed a three hour yoga workshop without any problem – hurrah! But my inaugural walk with the Long Distance Walkers Association resulted in a swollen ankle and a bit of a twinge in my knee. Since the walk was only 16 miles and shouldn’t have had any effect whatsoever, that rang some warning bells. I’ve booked a doctor’s appointment.
Meanwhile, the only other symptom has been that I can’t wear heels. In one fell swoop, half of my clothes have been rendered temporarily redundant and it’s just as well I don’t have a partying kind of lifestyle because my party wear is usually jeans with heels. Roughly once a week I get out my leopard skin platforms, put one on, say ‘Ow, fuck’ and put the shoes back in the box. This has not gone unnoticed, and at least one colleague is metaphorically circling, inquiring in seeming innocence, ‘Wearing your heels yet?’ with an acquisitive glint in her eye. It’s chilling, I can tell you. The kittens may not be all I have to fear if I am helpless.
Since I can’t wear heels, I haven’t really bothered doing any passive shoe shopping but it’s Christmas! The season of heels! So, if I could wear and/or afford the shoes, these are what I’d be lusting after:
Ok, so not strictly party shoes but soo0 pretty. And on sale, which I kind of wish I hadn’t noticed because even an LK Bennett sale price is the sort of thing to make you wince. Impractical? check. Ribbon? check. I’d call that almost an essential addition to my unwearable shoe collection.
But since we’re in fantasy land here, why mess around at the low end of the market? If I ever become successful, which it not going to happen because I can’t be arsed, I’ll be off for designer shoes before the first new pay cheque has cleared. The boys are calling…
First, let us see what Jimmy Choo has to say for himself. Platform, ridiculous heel and sparkles. I call that a fairly compelling argument.
I don’t know when I would wear these but I feel strongly that there is a limo involved. Also, champagne. Also, David Tennant. It might be spring or autumn, but I think that’s not a winter shoe, although I suppose if one is ferried wherever by limo, stepping out only onto red carpet and into fabulous restaurants, the season is immaterial.
I wonder if Mr Blahnik has anything to say in response?
Indeed he has. Manolo says, combine your penchant for slut shoes with your penchant for boots and buy these:
The pre-requisite here seems to be a relocation to Rome, because these boots were clearly designed to be worn while sitting at a table in a piazza in spring sunshine, dipping biscotti into a cappuccino and wondering whether to go to Prada before or after lunch.
Back in the real world, my dilemma is do I go to Waitrose before or after lunch? (And will David Tennant be there?)