I’ve had an on-off relationship with shoes.
There used to be a time when I had only two pairs. One black, that went with everything in winter. One ivory, that saw me through each summer. Then, when I was working and fleetingly flush with cash, an inner Imelda burst forth. I had shoes to match every outfit and a couple of pairs that didn’t match anything, but perhaps one day would.
For a particularly spectacular corporate event I purchased a pair of Jimmy Choos. Let’s be clear. They were almost half price in the Harvey Nicks sale. But even so, still more than double the cost of any pair of shoes bought either before or since.
The trouble is, I’ve always been hard on heels. There are ladies who can wear flimsy strappy little numbers with elegance and finesse. And then there’s me. The event was held out of doors, at a temporary hospitality unit with a decked terrace out front. The Jimmys didn’t even make it to the door. A heel found its way down a crack between the decking and the leather covering was wrecked. I spent the rest of the event on tiptoe between the cracks, but to prove it wasn’t a fluke, managed to get the other heel too.
As we were climbing the 84 steps the other day, I drew some criticism on the state of a pair of rather ordinary black ankle boots and realised that I’ve come full circle again. I wear them everywhere and with mostly everything and I suppose they really ought to be replaced. But if you climb a rain sodden hill every day, hopping over mud and fast flowing rivulets just to get to the car, how many Choos do you need?