It all started to come back. Not only did I blog the thing, but I raised it in discussion at work. Someone suggested that I went to Jimmy Choos, because someone else does, and they're really comfortable or something. Well, at those prices, they ought to be. Then I got thinking, I can't go splurging on new shoes and skirts, Jimmy's going to start thinking that I've taken up with another man.
In the evening I went up to Sloane Square and suddenly felt peckish, so I ambled onto Kings Road. I paused outside a shoe shop. I looked in the window. I walked in. I tried on some shoes on display. I felt a rush of blood. I panicked and ran out the shop, relieved I had resisted. Because, you know, I could have ended up blowing a small fortune.
I thought, who in their right mind would buy shoes on Kings Road Chelsea. It's a stupid stupid thing to do. Then I remembered all the previous occasions I had bought shoes on Kings Road Chelsea, and then I began to remember the shoes.
Now, I want to make it clear, I wore just about every pair of shoes I ever bought. I used to enjoy shoes. Shoes and nail varnish have always been my thing, not compulsively or continuously, but definitely a thing. I had red shoes and brown shoes and blue shoes and pink shoes, as well as black shoes and cream shoes. Then two things happened almost simultaneously. I became aware of a media thing promoting the idea of collecting shoes as a viable alternative to having an actual personality. And shoes became horrid. I remember traipsing round in despair, unable to find shoes that were neither adolescently chavvy nor grossly frumpy. I kept seeing shoes that were over-priced plastic, especially designed to cripple - typical designed by men, used by women scenario, the late 20th century Western equivalent of binding a woman's feet. Really quite sick, actually. and shoes for years have either been boringly elegant or offensively ugly things.
But a new dawn has broken and I have fallen in love with a shop. A shop that is very soon going to receive a significant boost to its turnover. where's it been all my life? How have I managed to miss it. I'm purring, like, there's at least four styles just on that first page that I want, now. And they come in different colours, too. I am in lurve.
Waiting at the bus stop to go home the woman in front of me looked wonderful. a simple charcoal grey jersey knot dress, smooth plain black tights and gorgeous boots. I was looking at her for so long that I realised a bloke was staring at me, possibly thinking that maybe I fancied this woman...I didn't even notice her face. It was the boots, the ensemble.
Although one has to careful with these jersey dresses. I saw a woman today, early twenties in a loud purple one, and she was a plump girl. A plump girl with poor deportment, and I did so want to rush over to her and say in some tactful non-demeaning way, 'it really isn't you, love'. Instead I made a mental note that it really isn't me!
I don't think Jimmy is particularly aware of my secret past as a shoe-buyer, although he did express surprise at finding the orange trainers, the red boots...I was a reformed addict and now I need to binge again...
Comments