Sole ambitions

I have been a very good girl lately, especially over the past few months. My favourite shoe store had a sale and did I go? NO! The chappie who makes shoes for me called me for a special sale. Did I buy anything? NO! Well, actually, I did, but I returned them, since they did not fit right. Everyone at work has been flitting back from an expedition to a local mall for a sale to end all; was I part of the flock? NO! So I am not only low on my stock of newbies, but also am owed a pair to replace the unfitting one. Not bad, huh!
People who know me know my passion for shoes as well. They probably also know about my feelings for cats, chocolate and much else, including life, travel, food and family, though perhaps not about my top secret recipe for banana bread and my liking for all things small, soft, wiggly and cuddly – I HATE soft toys, though, let me warn you! I may have inherited many of these preferences from parents and an odd friend or two (‘odd’ being the operative word here), but some have developed on their own, emerging from the primordial swamp of my own imagination and creative ferment, as it were.

One of these, nurtured by my mother’s style statement, is footwear. She had pretty slippers to match all her outfits and taught me how to be as coordinated and put-together. But perhaps she never bargained for my need to wear spike heels of the most delectably perilous kind, the sort that you cannot imagine running in but which work fine on your feet and your ego when you walk into a party or an office and everyone stares downwards.

Making that statement has never been important, but feeling that incredible power that comes with high heels always has. You can step on someone’s toes with a spike heel backed with a couple of tons of pressure on a tiny surface (yes, that is the case even though you may not weigh more than 50-something kilos, I am told). You can squash someone’s ego with the prettiest, funkiest, sexiest stilettos created by man guided by women. And you can flaunt a well-turned ankle, a honed calf, a set of perfectly shaped knees and a flirty skirt when they are all being stretched just so by the slant of a sharp angle from heel to toe.

Sigh.

My last shoe acquisition was a pair of deep red spikes that was, in essence, a tangle of leather thongs woven over a slim black heel. I have not worn them yet, but long to. They need to wait in line, since before them comes a totally ridiculous pair of gold, black and diamante cone heels, ruched purple satin stilettos and a completely unreasonable pair with gold and sparkles balanced on a high metal toothpick. Those, in turn, hang around in the wings behind a pair of cream ankle-strappers, pink and blue thongs and pale red suede slip-ins that begged to be taken home with me. There must be more, some even flatter-heeled, but I need to explore a bulging shoe cupboard to find out. Trouble is, I am not sure that once I open it, I will be able to ram it shut again.