Oh God, it’s come to this: I have just three pairs of shoes I consider to be truly, in-my-heart, wear-all-day comfortable.
One pair are sandshoes. One are Birkenstocks. The count could get to four if I allowed the inclusion of my Ugg boots. But we all know that’s a slippery slope.
So then here are these little darlings; silver brogues in lightweight leather, almost but not quite flat. They somehow manage to broach the great divide between style and comfort to come up both natty and utterly, utterly wearable.
I love them, but I can’t wear them every single day, not least because then I’d wear them out, and then where would I be?
My wardrobe is stuffed with other shoes I love. There are stack-heeled black patent courts. The most fabulous tapestry cloth and leather boots, bought in Anthropologie in New York (sigh …), reduced from $780 to $180 and IN MY SIZE! There are the red suede wedges that have given me inordinate joy even though they really are too high. There are the black woven raffia ballets slippers, the orange Jigsaw sandals I had copied in black for $50 in Vietnam (they did them overnight. I kid you not). And there are about, oh, CHECK other pairs, divided pretty equally between my side of the wardrobe, the communal bit at the top and my partner’s 12-year-old son’s room (I might include him in my will).
I once wore them all. And when I say ‘once’ I’m talking about 18 months ago.
Then, quite suddenly, everything started to feel a bit hurty. Blisters appeared where blisters had never been, along with burning rough spots on the ball of my feet. Looking down at the end of the day brought to mind one of dad’s after-dinner compliments: “I’m as full as a fat lady’s shoe.” My toenails don’t require crowbars or secateurs yet, but I fear that will come. I got a bunion – if it’s good enough for Victoria Beckham, it’s good enough for me I suppose, but really? Aren’t bunions for stooped old crones, stalk-wearing supermodels - and Posh? Some might argue, but I don’t think I’m any of those.