Patent Kurt's Hurts

OK I admit it, I haven't written because I’ve been sulking. Not only has my foot been giving me some proper aggro as the nerve has been going through the ‘I’m awake and I’m angry, what did you do to me, freeze me? I’m awake and I’m angry’ cycle. Then to top it off, I received confirmation that I didn’t get in to the London Marathon next year. I cancelled the hotel room in the huff. You can shove yer Premier Inn right in.

I couldn’t even get a place on a golden bond, even pledging to raise two grand isn’t enough to get you in. I bet some ‘K’ list celebrity that’s slept with someone who knows someone that’s worked with someone on the X Factor has got a place. They’ll be there at the opening of an envelope on the Friday night in Hoxton, necking glasses of Moet and Chandon and gromfing down plate after plate of some posh grub that I’m too bitter to remember the name of and then they’ll be trotting down the Strand on the Sunday, after taking twelve hours to do the marathon. Perhaps if you hadn’t had to stop off every fifteen minutes to touch up your lippy darling, you might have done it in less than seven hours. Pah.

‘Bitter, party of one’

It’s probably for the best though, given the amount of thrashing the nerve is giving me at the moment. I was so huffy that I thought 'sod it' and tortured myself by wearing the most amazingly, gorgeous pair of patent Kurt Geiger shoes I will ever own to a beautiful winter wedding last week. It’s not gone unnoticed that I have no photos of me on the day as the wife of the best man, however I do have two random photos on my phone of my feet in said shoes (exhibit A and B attached m'lud) To give me some dues they were taken before we had a sherry or two to toast the happy couple......and the brilliant best man’s speech.

Ahhhh, yes I remember these shoes, purchased about five years ago from House of Fraser at Meadowhell. They should have been well over a hundred quid but I spotted them at a reduced, bonzer price of £49. To be fair, there probably aren’t any pixie footed freaks out there that they’d fit, other than me. They are teen-mc-weeny and they make me almost tall, well tall-ish….less than small, let’s stick with less than small.

After wearing them for approximately thirteen hours last Saturday, including at least an hour having a good old boogie to Dazzling DJ Dave my feet were squealing with delight to be set free of the corsets that had bound them for so long and both my feet were shall we say, a tad on the 'sore' side on the Sunday. Thankfully I didn’t have to get up and toddle off for Marathon training.

Perhaps the ballot outcome wasn’t so bad
after all.
Pah!

Studmuffin or bust

So it’s two weeks since round two of the cryo and the pain kicked in after about day six. Thankfully gabapentin came to my aid, riding in on its 300mg yellow casing. It might be a while before I can, but I can’t wait to slip on these babies.

From the shoe stable of Mr Mr Kurt Geiger these are comedically called ‘Studmuffin’. Yep, seriously that’s the name on the box of these shoes. I bought these when I refused to be torn away from heels but knew that I had to make a change from the pointy-toed monsters that had led me down the painful garden path in my pre-neuroma days. Like an addict I told myself I could just have a heel without the pointy toe and get by, I could just get a small fix and that I would be ok, I could manage it, I could control my urges and desires, I would be ok having a small heel and a roomy toe. And pretty much, I was right.

These were the shoes I wanted, nay needed for a friend’s wedding in 2010. I wasn’t sure if I could make it through the day and night in the Studmuffins so I bought a relatively flat wedge back up pair of shoes from Dune that accompanied me to Stoke on Trent for the wedding and reception. The wedges gave me height without pain and also, two pairs of shoes for the same event with an excuse of wanting to ensure a pain free day, sneaky huh?

I ended up wearing the wedges in the day-time, they had the incredibly unimaginative name of “Madrid”, but then I slipped on the Muffins in the evening when we got back to the hotel. It was a good day and a good night and my foot didn’t hurt very much at all but to be honest that might have been the alcohol. Just saying….

Subsequently I have found that these shoes have become my greatest ally in the need for height coupled with the need for a pain free life. Whenever I have slipped on a dress over the summer they have been my gently caressing non-threatening friends whilst in the office, at a funeral, at a birthday party and at numerous other non-events where a dress called for heels to avoid the appearance of being the small, tubby lass with fat calves and ankles (cankles). I’m hoping that I’ll be able to get reacquainted with the muffins by the end of September when I’m off to a wedding. Quite frankly, if I have to wear casual slip-ons I might as well just tip up in a pink shell suit, yeah but, no but...

It’s the Muffins or bust.

Ding-Ding, Round two

Enforced rest has many benefits; being waited upon hand and foot, all food has no guilt strings attached and you can’t feel bad about watching tv or reading books. Since Friday I have spent more time attached to my sofa than I probably have for the rest of the year combined, and today is only Sunday. By Tuesday I will need to be surgically removed from the black leathery temptress and I will probably need to get my eyes tested again due to the amount of degeneration from reading e-books on my laptop.

It’s actually been bliss, marred only by the subtle throbbing emanating from my left foot, a gentle reminder of the second bout of cryo-injection therapy I undertook on Friday afternoon. I’m certain this will do the trick, nine minutes of freezing rather than the usual six in total to create an ice ball one centimetre in length with temperatures as low as -67˚ inside my foot. Basically, I had the planet Hoth in my foot. By the end of the procedure I could feel that my teeth wanted to start chattering. I’m sure it was purely psychological and the weather was pants on Friday but it took me most of the day to get warm again.

The procedure doesn’t hurt but the initial anaesthetic and steroid injections are not for the faint hearted, I was pleased that Robin http://bit.ly/om0uVa suggested we ‘pop the AC on’ prior to beginning. Once the injections had been done I was ok for him to turn it off, the AC on my clamminess only heightened the innate desire to give in to the tunnel vision and hurl chunks. My loving husband texted me afterwards to see if I’d ‘spewed’ during the procedure, knowing me as long as he has I’m surprised he doesn’t know, I part with nothing unless silver crosses my palm.

Following this enforced rest I have one confession to make and an apology; I’ve read all the Twilight books and watched all the available films, and although the shining like diamonds thing as opposed to burning up in the sun is still not sitting right with the folklore to which I have become accustomed, I admit it, the Twilight books are as entertaining as all the other vamp stories I’ve devoured in my time. So I’m sorry for my previous aspersions upon the stories. Don’t get me wrong it ain’t no True Blood and I have no loin-stirrage for Pattinson (trust me, I’d feel way too much like a cougar if I did) but it’s been a decent way to spend a weekend. A weekend when the closest I’ve been to shoes is a luxurious pair of velour grey slippers, which would suit everyone yet no one from the age of 13 to 93.

So here I am sat on my sofa after round two on my journey to be rid of a Morton’s Neuroma, it’s over a year since I did any running and it’s thanks only to Prime Mover http://bit.ly/qAS0zN that I’m not the size of the leathery temptress. Imagine me as a sofa with eyes, and a gammy foot. The next two months of low impact gentle exercise will mean a careful eye on the diet and the turning back on of the will power gene. But come the end of October I will be starting my 25-week build up to the London Marathon 2012, I’ll know in October if I’m successful in the ballot or if I have to raise £2,000 to buy my way in. Either way I’m doing it, the hotel in Greenwich is booked, although I’m still deciding on the charity to run for. Perhaps the shoe sale could go some way to covering that potential cost.

I’m sure you think I’m mad, recovering from a procedure that I’ve undergone which was probably caused by the repetition of road running and talking about running again, but we all need challenges, without them we just exist rather than live. Besides after Friday’s session the chances of the inter-digital nerve making it through to next April is slim. The hope is that the nerve will wither and die and stop bugging me once and for all; the extra cycle of freezing should completely inhibit the ability for the nerve to regenerate, my body will break it down and it won’t come back. A bit like using Weedol on that annoying blighter in the middle of the drive. Chances are there won’t be any pain in the future because there won’t be a nerve to give me pain.

It’s been an expensive and painful journey to get back to running fitness and the journey isn’t finished yet but I’ve learned a lot of things along the way.
1. Always insist upon laying down if someone is going to inject steroids into me
2. Never give up, never give in always move forwards
3. Pointy toes aren’t the answer to every wardrobe issue.

Samuel L. Jackson's shoe manifesto

Today was a day when I wasn’t going to check in to the t’interweb. I thought you could live ok without me and my shoe ramblings, and to be frank I’m sure you could. But here’s the thing, I wanted to share.

One of my neighbours passed away earlier this week and I thought I was ok with the news, until at the funeral I discovered she was eight years older than me and her 16 and 18 year old kids weren’t doing so well with the news that mom had given up her fight with the big C. It was on the whole a really special funeral, very moving, photos of the deceased and her kids and a shirt of her favourite football team across the coffin. Perhaps you’d think, ‘what the hell I can deal with this’, till her daughter stands up and starts telling the congregation how her mom was a role model and she looked up to her and wanted to make her proud, (note to self; do not ever attend another funeral wearing black without tissues; snail trails look fanciful on garden walls but not on dresses)

It was distressing, I hadn’t realised how much Kathryn Carpenter had made such an impression upon our neighbourhood until today; she was a feisty, passionate character and she will be missed by everyone who knew her. She cared about everyone and everything and that’s what made this social worker from the North special; her absolute passion about everything that mattered to her. Kath was a caring person, she was passionate and she loved what she loved – equality, diversity, people, friends, family, anything worth fighting for oh yeah and Sheffield Wednesday. We have already made a pact to take her 16 year old son to as many games as possible.

Here’s the thing, they weren’t the perfect neighbours, they fought, they shouted, they had a dog that ran around on our garden, but they were good people and their world is currently upside down. I love them for trying to pull it together. I love them for burying their differences today and most of all I love how feisty and passionate they all are, just like Kath. She would have adored today. The moving ceremony and the boozy get together afterwards, within spitting distance of the house.

I went to the ceremony in a different pair of shoes, which we will discuss later, but today, I walked to the pub in these flat babies, courtesy of the Shearers. They were a birthday present to celebrate a ‘0’ birthday last year. They’re flat and they were going to be worn for the entire 30-minute walk up the hill to the pub before another neighbour pulled up alongside us and said ‘do you want a lift?’

See that’s the thing, we have a Cameron neightbourhood without the Cameron Government; Big Society pah……We help each other, we look out for one another, we offer to help and if it’s requested, we deliver; like a Sam L. Jackson Government we give a fuck, mutherfucka.

Life round here is a bit like these shoe, comfy, easy, but covered in prickly studs. We’ll throw you a curve because we’re a bit different, but deep down we’re lovely and we will go the extra mile to help someone who needs support, but always be appreciative of that love because it’s never one way. Perhaps if we all were like that life would be so such easier, and so much nicer to share with strangers - we give if you accept and give a bit in return.

Thanks Kath, I’ve learned so much today about my neighbours and I thank you for that. You will be missed but your strength through the last few months will be remembered for ever. We’ll keep an eye on the kids and Wednesday for you.
Sniff.

Shoeless in Stockholm

These shoes hold memories of a sad time. I bought them to wear to a friend’s wedding but the night before we were supposed to go, we got home from the office to find our home had been burgled. They had just about cleared us out; all the small electricals that weren’t bolted down had gone; DVDs, CD’s, my jewellery including a wedding band that had belonged to my grandma (Dorothy not Lilian), my engagement ring that had been too big after I lost weight, they’d even stolen the gift for the bride and groom.

That was an awful feeling to come home and see spaces where things had been just a few hours earlier and the dawning realisation that things with no worth to anyone else, yet priceless to us, were gone forever. The police were patronisingly useless at the time; I don’t really think advising someone who is grieving for a dead relative’s £10 wedding band should be told that banks offer safety deposit boxes for valuable items. Yeah thanks Sherlock, I wasn’t seeking your counsel, just your ability to track down criminals with your rapier sharp intellect and that dusty powder to show up finger-prints. (which you left all over my bloody house afterwards)

To give them their dues though, some four months later whilst raiding a drug dealer’s house about 1.5 miles away the police stumbled upon a gym bag with a gym pass card in which they managed to trace back to me. It having my photo and name on made it surprisingly easy and also ensured that suddenly they actually believed that someone had broken in to our house and made off with half of our lives; there was a moment when they insinuated it was an inside job.

I honestly couldn’t believe my luck when I got my gym card and gym bag back. It’s really difficult to convey sarcasm and indifference through the written word so let me just say, the bag and card were like a grain of sand compared to the ocean of sadness I felt in losing jewellery which I had amassed from friends and family over the years. They were worthless on the open market, but priceless to me.

Amongst the nightmare, it also transpired that my passport had been lifted. The very same passport I would need to travel to Stockholm ten days later for a work related visit. Have you ever tried to get a replacement passport because yours is stolen? Don’t expect it to be a quick turnaround, not within ten days anyway. I had to rustle up letters from the management company that was paying for me to travel to Stockholm and the guarantee of how much income would be lost if I didn’t travel. Plus I had to spend an entire day in Liverpool waiting for the passport to be fast tracked. Liverpool……sigh.

These shoes remind me of that time and also hobble me worse than a fanatical Annie Wilkes with a much-loved lump hammer. Even though they have to go, they are really nice shoes, brown leather Jasper Conran’s with a small square heel and a summery sling back. But those pointy toes, they’re just too, well, pointy for me now. Regardless of how many pain killers I wolf down these shoes just aint’ gonna make it back on to my feet. And for that reason, they’re fired.

Sadly we didn't make it to the wedding, I was too sad and fearful to leave my house when it wasn't secured, but Stockholm ten days later? Well if you’re wondering what’s with the photo with the flashy lights, look carefully and the middle one on stage, that's me.

Destroyed, Wicked and Bad

OK I admit it, I wore heels on Monday and took 900mg of gabapentin and now have really bad rebound pain. Was it worth it? You bet your L’Oreal life on it. Summer dress, open toed heels, not big heels but heels nevertheless. For once, just once, I didn’t feel dumpy in flats. I quite like flats but if I wear them with a dress, I look about 3’6” and 250lbs. See how I side swerved the metric system for my American readers?

Actually, I never really got to grips with the metric system, it was just being introduced in the UK when I was at school and to be fair the teachers didn’t have a Scooby, so we ended up not knowing what an inch or a centimetre was. Anyway, thankfully I know how much a pint is and what a four-inch heel looks like, what more do you need?

I could make some smutty gag about four inches and needing more than that but moving on…..

Remember me mentioning the Destroy wedges that were ‘well fierce’? Well check them out and behold the fierceness. Or is that ferocity? I bought these in 1996 at the start of my musical career and they accompanied me on my first trip to Ibiza in 97, the year I handed out a whole bunch of 12” vinyls and a record label was born. Aaaaaah, good times.

Being what can only be described as a ‘short arse’ the height that these shoes gave me was ‘visa card’ priceless. I had these slinky dark blue trousers, not quite jeans but with a substantial flare that I wore with these shoes. As I remember I wore them to death; you know how sometimes material gets a sheen to it after it’s been worn and washed too many times? Yeah well these got to that stage. I was a UK size ‘8’ back in those days, when 8 really meant something and wasn’t just a number plucked out of thin air by Gap which bears no resemblance to a size 8 in Topshop or Wallis, they’re all completely different arbitrary sizes. Or is it just me that thinks that? Answers on a postcard please.

You probably wouldn’t think so to look at these shoes but I could fair bust out a few moves on the dance floor wearing them and I never once twisted my ankle. To be brutally honest though they were so huge and cumbersome that gravity had planted them firmly on the floor before I’d even had the intention to do so. I felt like I was on the cutting edge of fashion in these shoes, they were bad, funky and wicked and lots of other words we used in the late 90s to elaborate upon something's brilliance. I’m not sure if they’ve reached vintage status yet. I read somewhere that an item has to be at least 20 years old to reach vintage status but I’ve also seen ebayers advertising something from three years ago as vintage. Divvies.

The shoes I've loved and lost (Part 1)

Writing this blog has made me ask questions of myself on a number of occasions. Why am I so addicted to shoes?
I’ve taken myself back to those moments when my feet and their coverings were important to me and I’ve pinpointed three things in my life that have made me the way I am. Or if I wuz a rapper, the way I is. Like. Innit.

I’ve taken myself back to a pair of shoes that fall in to the category of ‘the shoes I’ve loved and lost’; there will be many of these on this literary journey but these particular shoes stand out in my memory as one of the first pairs I remember in my life.

Funnily enough, they didn’t belong to me, they were Lilian’s; she was a lady I spent many hours with as a child, she was my grandmother and even now almost twenty years after her death I sometimes catch a smell of something that evokes memories of her, of her house and the times we shared. I spent a lot of time with all of my grandparents but I spent most weekends with Lil, sometimes I resented spending time with her rather than my parents and wondered why they didn’t want me at the weekend, but now as an adult I really value the close relationship I had with her. She taught me to bake cakes, tend to the garden and the value of loyalty and love having spent thirty or so years alone after the death of her beloved George, the grandfather I never had a chance to meet. To see her break down in the last few years of her life to become a shadow of her former self also taught me about the fragility of life and her passing on my then fiancé, now husband’s 21st birthday gave us sadness and an opportunity to joke that she would never be upstaged. Birthday or no birthday she was going to make sure we’d always remember her. She was a complex woman, with many foibles who sometimes wrapped herself in a mantle of jealousy but I can forgive her that, after all she’d seen a lot in her time, born the same year that the Titanic slipped beneath the waves, and living to a good age of 90.

So let me tell you about the shoes. They were deepest navy suede with a leather trim on the cross over toe, they had a kitten heel but felt incredibly high and somewhat roomy at the time to a small child like myself. Nothing has changed, I’m still small. In fact if I still had these shoes today they wouldn’t fit me. They were a size 5.5 and no matter how carefully I could have looked after them I would never have grown into them being a paltry size 3. They were definitely from the 1950s and I never saw Lil wear them, they were just my ‘dressing up’ shoes along with a lot of her wardrobe that she no longer felt the need or the love of life to wear. I remember they were a French made shoe, my heart wants to believe they were a pair of Charles Jourdan shoes but my head tells me that I should think something completely different, especially as there are vintage pairs going on ebay for between $80 and $150 right now.

When Lil died, we had about a week to clear her entire house and people who could recycle anything of any worth and landfill those items no one except her would have wanted, took her clothes, furniture, shoes and memories away. We could only keep so much, and as at her passing, my feet had reached the adult size they are today, the shoes slipped from my clutches and became one of the pairs of shoes I’ve loved and lost.

I still wear her gloves in the winter, black outer and tan wool lined from St Michaels, better known now as M&S and I sometimes wear a navy chiffon scarf, which was one of the last Christmas gifts I ever bought her. Those shoes tell part of my story and allow me to commit to the Internet, the lasting memory of a woman who died before she ever knew of its existence.

My nannan, she's the one in the middle. Another one I've loved and lost.

Gatecrasher and a Winter Wonderland

Ladies and Gentlemen may I present to you another pair of white shoes. These were bought online from Schuh (http://www.schuh.co.uk/) for a specific purpose, Gatecrasher’s White Party at Magna, Rotherham (http://www.visitmagna.co.uk/) in 2007, which was held on Boxing Day. It was a friend’s birthday and he wanted to go, so we duly obliged. To be fair this was a period in my life when just like The Vengaboys, I liked to party, so the idea of Gatecrasher over the Christmas period wasn’t so abhorrent to me; for my husband however….now that was a whole different kettle of pesce.

I don’t mind getting dressed up for special occasions but it galls me when I have to buy something that I probably won’t ever wear again, so it should come as no surprise that I recycled the top half of my wedding dress for the party. White shoes, black trousers, white top, sorted. Oh and the Mickey Mouse glo-sticks headband that someone gave to me during the evening; beautiful, in fact a sight to behold.

I danced for hours, mainly because it was freezing in Magna. Of all the places to have a party let’s just say a converted steelworks is not the best when it comes to wearing dinky little outfits in the middle of winter; smelting happened in those places for a reason. When the KLF/ JAMMs said it was ‘grim up north’ (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HwtSdJaPCSI) what they meant from that lyric was not a political statement, merely a factual ‘Eh up ar kid, it’s a bit parky oooop north’*.

I thought I’d like the music that night at Magna, that I’d be able to take it for an evening but I have to admit it, after the first trance tune with a big breakdown and yearning female vocal has washed over you, you’ve heard pretty much what’s going to happen for the rest of the evening. It’s just going to get faster and bigger until eventually there’s no place left to go. Turn left at hardcore and drop off at gabba. As I remember we all made a move somewhere around 4am, though my memory left the building around 2.30am so I could be talking utter bollihocks. What I do remember is that I didn’t really feel well again from the 27th of December until New Years Eve in 2007. Apparently you live and learn; I must have learned something as I’ve never felt that bad again since.

I’ve also learned something else from these shoes; four years after purchasing them I have learned that it’s not about the heel, it’s the toe. Remember the painful Pradas? A wee heel with a pointy toe inflicting ‘11’ on the scale of pain. Well these schuhs have a much higher heel but are roomy enough around the toe for the storage of your lunchtime sandwich or as we in the grim north would say ‘packing up’. Because of this the anaconda grip isn’t in full effect and the neuroma is held at bay. I’m not sure I’d want to make like Eliza Doolittle and dance all night in them but we may be on to something. Perhaps I should try a pair of these for my next night out http://bit.ly/n33eUe

*hello friend / brother / younger person it’s a little bit chilly when you get past Watford Gap.

Prada yes, painfree no.

Let’s get this straight, I’m not a label whore, I don’t buy into brands just because they’re big names or expensive, in fact I’m actually a late adopter with most things in life. By the time naval piercings were seen on the ‘not so hot’ lists in magazines I decided to get mine done. By the time everyone started to swerve leggings, I went out and bought some, after spending about a year spouting about ‘not buying a fashion item because I remembered it from the first time around’. 'Jelly' shoes and bags get thee behind me, you live in the 80s not the now.

No, I don’t just buy things because there’s a name attached or a kudos associated with them. So ‘back in the day’ when my friends were swanning around airports dragging their overly badged Prada luggage behind them, I wasn’t moved in the slightest and stuck with my trusty Samsonite.

And then it happened. As an apology for keeping my husband in Russia for longer than anticipated in order to do more DJ gigs, a promoter who we shall just call ‘D’, bought me a Prada purse. To be fair just like any other purse, it carried coins, notes and cards, it didn’t have any super powers and other than the little red ‘Prada’ label, it just looked like a nice purse. A nice purse that oozed quality and class and said 'Prada' on it, yeah baby! I bought in to that little slice of exclusivity for a while and I loved that purse for a good number of years until it, just like all other purses that enter your life, one day it passed away.

Its ability to carry coins, notes and cards ceased and suddenly it stopped being a purse, suddenly it became a grubby piece of leather with a zip and an expensive red tag. Just as candles that never burn are only lumps of wax with a string through the middle, when something does not perform the task for which it was acquired, it’s a cuckold in your life and it needs to move on. Its presence only stops you from allowing other good things in to the space that is currently occupied, you become rooted in its past and not your present.

My love affair with the purse ended but I remembered the pleasure it gave me so when these Prada shoes became available on ebay I jumped at paying a fraction of the original cost and allowed them into my wardrobe and my heart, a space they have occupied for some time. They are a lovely shoe with an exaggerated buckle that hangs cheekily to the front of the foot, the all important pointy toe and teeny heel meant these shoes accompanied me to work on a number of occasions, though them being brown meant I had to go out and buy a whole new outfit to match. Go on be honest how many of you have bought clothes to match your ‘must have’ shoes? No, really? I should get my mom reading these blogs then I know I wouldn’t be alone.

With some sadness I have decided that these shoes are going back from whence they came, to the great ebay in the sky. I tried them on a few days ago when I took them out of the wardrobe for their photoshoot and the ever present throb and burn in the left foot was turned up to ‘11’ like Nigel Tufnel’s* Marshall stack. ‘That’s one louder, innit?’

Prada yes, painfree no. I think I'll stick to my trusty Merrels, where the strap line could be ‘For the hobbit in you’ or ‘For when your foot is as wide as it is long’.

Sigh......


*Spinal Tap guitarist.

Leathery Faced Lovers

I can’t for the life of me remember how long I’ve had these boots, but I’d hazard a guess of at least ten years. It must be a while, as I’ve had them re-heeled at least once.

Though not so light as to invoke similarities with Ang Lee’s wire-work in ‘Crouching Badger, Hidden Demon’, I’ve always been incredibly light on my feet, so have rarely needed shoes soling or heeling. Also, even before Morton dropped by and left me his neuroma, I tended to live life in trainers or walking shoes so the fancy heels only made it out for work or ‘occasions’. There’s a trendy fashionista in here somewhere but she normally only pops out for an hour or so at the weekend, in between being dragged up and down fells by a crazy Irish Setter and the bald man.

So on a true CSI tip and without carbon dating, I can determine that because these gently worn shoe boots have been re-heeled they must have been in my life for around a decade. That and the fact that because I can’t remember buying them and the past ten years have been a hazy blur, they must have been born into my wardrobe around the turn of the millennium.

I cannot deny it, there are some creases in the leather but they’re more Sean Connery than Keith Richards. The term 'worn well' rather than 'well worn' comes to mind. They’ve not had a life of hard drugs, nicotine and cheap whiskey, no their life has been much simpler and some might say more boring, only coming out to play in the past four or five years for the occasional gig at The Corporation in Sheffield (http://bit.ly/7PTdXJ) and for winter nights out on the icy streets of the North. Of course that could be any time from the 1st of October through to the 1st of May in any given year.

I realise that they don’t have a very high heel, I believe the term is ‘kitten’, but the pointy toes possess an anaconda grip across the widest part of my hobbity shaped foot. So like the vast majority of my leathery lovers they need to go to make room for all the wonderful things that I’m welcoming in to my life. Like shoes with evocatively sexy names such as ‘Bramble’ , ‘Camille’ and ‘Pudding’.

I made that last one up.

Miss Sixty and the footwear of Doom.

I have to say that generally speaking, I’ve not been the type to be swayed by fashion labels making shoes; it’s a bit like asking a jeweller to make you a table. He might be an absolute genius at balancing clarity with colour but unless you want your table to have a Tiffany setting where the coasters should sit, it’s not a great idea to get them to work in a medium with which they’re unaccustomed. It’s all a bit ‘Clash of the Codes’.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve bought and still buy High Street shoes, I’m certainly not a shoe snob, well actually I am, I just hate to admit it to myself; but I just think you should stick to what you’re good at. The instant Jimmy Choo released a perfume, in my opinion, the brand was devalued and it’s the same with fashion houses that move into shoes. I get it, I really do, the nature of commerce and capitalism is all about maximising the market place; squeezing more sales from your current customers because it’s easier than finding new ones and that is why, after ten years of selling clothing, a company such as Miss Sixty would move on to selling shoes.

I bought into the brand on a few occasions, back in the day they had stand out pieces at reasonable prices; the gold foil on red shirt that I wore on a number of press shots, the pink t-shirt with the kitten photo print, so when I saw these shoes, I went against my better judgement. To me these shoes epitomised summertime, where apparently the living is easy. I know some people have an issue with white shoes but in summer the rules about white shoes don’t count, do they? You don’t really have to be a girl from Essex to wear them do you? Anyway, I thought they were cute and would be smart for a summer holiday and they went with me the first time I holidayed in Sharm el Sheik, Egypt. Needless to say, after I caught the scuba diving bug on that holiday, it was the first and last time I gave a toss about which shoes went with me to that destination. After that, my foot attire consisted entirely of black neoprene booties and flip-flops. Not sexy or cute but give you that all important smell of rubber.

Going out for dinner whilst on holiday seemed like a good opportunity to give these a run out. However, to say they rubbed would be an understatement; they chafed worse than a fibreglass vest on a jogger’s nipple. And they made my feet really, really warm. I mean you could blame the +90°c heat and high humidity but I’m happy to stick with it being the shoes' fault that my feet got so warm and encouraged blistering. You can’t blame the soreness on the heat, that all came down to the shoe and it's insistence on rubbing me like an inexperienced lover on a lady nubbin.

I’ve never worn them since, as you can tell from photos of the sole. Perhaps a cool footed lady from Essex with a somewhat fleshier foot to counteract the chafing would like these as I’m offloading them to make room for a good old fashioned pair of Hush Puppies. Unless they’ve started to make tables.

Bertie Boys & Hoxton Toys

I love these shoes, they are so incredibly sexy with a concealed platform and a monster mega heel. All the things that make me wince in pain and yes LDV, I know there’s beauty in pain, but it’s a bit like the smoker with emphysema having a toot on the oxygen tank before lighting up. There’s something incredibly wrong in taking painkillers that enable you to not feel nerves in order to squeeze your pinkies into shapes that the human form should not be squeezed in to. If wearing your ‘nadgers’ in a vice was a fashion statement, how many blokes would be on board? Though I’m sure in Hoxton there’d be a number of Black and Decker and Irwin Tools seen attached to a number of ‘tools’.

I tried these shoes on earlier tonight and giggled that I understood how the Chinese ladies who had their feet bound, felt. And then I googled it. Let’s just say that Google killed the giggle and no, you can’t put “Google killed the Giggle” on t-shirts, it’s mine. I hereby claim it for my own.

That is some serious body modification the Chinese people had going on. I could harp on about the subjugation of women and emancipation post 1911 banning of the practise, but I agree with James A.Crites (http://bit.ly/djuEuK) that we should avoid judging other cultures, just because they don’t conform to our norm. I’m sure there are some people who think me cultivating a herd in the bottom (and top) of my wardrobe (and my husband’s) is wrong. And they’d be right. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself as I’m preparing to release them back to the wild.

These were bought from the fashion megalodon (part Shark, part e-commerce website) ‘ASOS’ (www.asos.com) about four years ago, primarily for work. I know what you’re thinking, at what point did I decide to go down the high class hooker route? Listen, I’m 5’1” regardless of the extra inch my passport has given me, heels are a journey out of the netherworld, the area of being noticed, where the big people live. I admit it, I tottered to work a few times in these. Then I realised that as they were size 36 and I’m a 35.5 (otherwise known as ‘effin small’, remember?) that after a while I walked out of them. Not particularly attractive….or sexy…or powerful. Just, well….baggy, if truth be known. I’ve tried the rubber heel fillers and they work for while but as they warm up, my teeny tiny plates of meat slide out of old Bertie Boys. I so wanted to be the power suit woman going 'buy, sell, sell, buy' but nah, that's not me either.

They are really gorgeous shoes and they’re virtually new, I’m sad to see them go, but regardless of the deformed metatarsal, they’re not practical. And by practical I mean, they don’t stay on my feet. Which in most books is a key necessity of shoes. Otherwise you might as well wear hats on your feet. Very comfortable, so I hear and in a wide fitting too.

The Darkness Within

Of all the shoes I’ve owned, there’s one pair above all the rest that I think helped contribute to the development of the Morton’s Neuroma and these are the bad-ass mo-fos that squeezed my foot. If truth be known they are probably a size too small; I just had to have these boots even though a European 35.5 with that amount of pointy toe is probably a UK size two rather than a size three, and that laydeeez and gentlemen is a bit of an issue when you’re cramming your size three into them.

Even now though, after the pain they’ve inflicted I still adore these boots. Look at that heel though, I mean look……at……that……heel, and the buckles and the zips and the laces and the (way too) pointy toe. Hmmmmmmmm, these are the sort of boots that you’d see being licked by the servants of Lady Heather.

These are the boots I bought when I was blazing my way through the first season of True Blood; a programme where vampires really are vampires and sparkling is something that only happens in champagne. You see, I have a ‘thing’ about vampires, Dracula, Lestat, Angel, Blade, I’m not picky; in fact I’m a slut when it comes to vampire films, I’ll watch them all. I've even waded through Bram Stoker's novel and lowered myself to IDW Publishing's vampire comic books.

I think this fascination with the blood-suckers stems from the weekends I spent as a child with Lilian, my paternal Grandmother who allowed me to stay up way past the bed-time of any normal child. It was a reciprocal agreement, she ensured I didn’t spend the weekend playing with matches, sharp implements and snuff (hard drugs back then consisted of snuff and herbal tinctures) and in return I would keep her company when the Hammer House of Horrors or old MGM and Universal screamfests were on the old black and white tv. She didn’t change to colour until after the Royal Wedding of the 1980s and even then it was only because one of the valves had gone. It made Snooker from the Crucible an interesting viewing experience.

We’d sit up and watch all manner of bawdy trash at the weekend and I’d be mesmerised by the callousness of Dracula (Lugosi, Langella, Lee and Jourdan) and the eroticism of his ‘brides’; I’m not sure I got the erotic undertones at that early age, but there was certainly something about the flowing locks and voluptuous breasts that planted seeds of interest into my subconscious.

There’s just something about a good vampire film that draws me in, I think I may have an inner goth and these boots are a symbol of that dark heart seeking a form of expression; hell even Rhianna reckons it’s good being bad.

We haven't spent much time together me and these dominatrix boots but I remember that I first wore them to a friend’s Halloween party and admittedly felt a bit of a ‘crunch’ in my foot after wearing them for a couple of hours. I seem to remember having the neuroma twinge before the boots but I could be wrong. Alternatively I may just not want to blame them, how could I? They made me do it. Yes, Mistress Boots…….

Lusty Beggars

That Belfast weekend two years ago was a memorable experience for so many reasons, not forgetting the beautiful wedding at Lusty Beg Island. The weather behaved like a perfect gentleman; wonderful with a hint of stroppiness in the form of raindrops just as the bride and groom kissed. The number that fell could probably be counted on one hand but it did make me want to shout ‘it’s spitting, it’s spitting, everybody in’ at an inopportune moment. I managed to calm my inner comic and avoided spoiling the big day.

In fact, narrowly avoiding spoiling the big day seemed to be a theme for the wedding, the groom had forgotten the edit of the ‘first dance’; cue a number of people frantically downloading the track from iTunes on their iPhones. It was sorted, but with a short break in proceedings. Then of course there was the obligatory domestic amongst the wedding guests, which fortunately only became evident the morning after when we had to ferry a guest member back to Belfast because his ‘missis’ had left him stranded on the island. He didn’t seem to mind much and ensured he had a number of bottles of beer for the journey back to Belfast, just to ‘take the edge off the journey you understand’.

I also seem to remember ‘breaking’ the father of the groom after having him bust out some moves with me on the dance floor. It really was a great wedding and the black suede Manolos spent most of the day on my feet; I say most of the day as they did have to sit out some of the dancing, apparently they were a little tired and they knew that I was having the first pinch of the neuroma. Bless them, for being so understanding; they didn’t sit in the corner though, after all no one puts baby in the corner.

Like most of my heeled shoes these Manolos haven’t seen the outside of my wardrobe in at least a year and when I checked them out earlier today, in order to take the photo I noticed that sadly they’re a tad more battered than I thought they were, guess I’ll have to keep them after all…

Slip sliding away

It always happens, it’s actually the fundamental cornerstone of Sods Law; when you start to come down with a cold you only actually have three tissues left, and it’s at that point you have to ask yourself the ultimate question, toilet roll or kitchen roll? That Ladies and Gentlemen is my dilemma this evening, that and I couldn’t decide which shoes to talk about next so I plumped to go through the camera roll on my iPhone and use the next pair after the YSL numbers. It was a decision by default, like most peoples lives.

So here they are, one of the few times I’ve hopped on the “fashion shoe bus”. What can I say? These, or let’s be fair, something like these, looked great on SJP*. Remember that summer a few years back when the ‘cage shoe’ was all the rage, when petite ladies chose to make themselves look even stumpier? Yep, I bought a ticket for that bus ride. Perhaps if I’d had the balls to wear shorter, tighter skirts then they may have looked better on me. But there again, if I’d had balls we wouldn’t have wanted the skirt to be too short now would we?

Amazingly enough for an online purchase these are pretty comfortable shoes, obviously the burning, screaming neuroma agony aside. I remember the first time I wore these; it was the night I’d travelled to Belfast for a wedding that was taking place two days later, a couple of hours drive away from Belfast on Lusty Beg Island…..yes that really was the name of the wedding venue, I kid ye not, check it out http://www.lustybegisland.com/

So the evening before the drive out to the venue we went to a friend’s club night in Belfast, a cracking place called Mono (www.monobelfast.com) and I wore the SJP Cage shoes. Big mistake. Huge. Cataclysmic. Monumental.

It appears that the floor of this place had a special reaction to the soles of said shoes and I spent much of the evening like bambi on ice. Dancing was an altogether fresh and unique experience whilst holding on to a handrail around the dj booth. It was a classy look I’d got going on I can tell you, thankfully I wasn’t on the pull as all I’d have gone home with that night was a dude on a zimmer. A trip to the toilet reminded me of the slalom on Ski Sunday as there was a slight slope down from the dancefloor…..I clearly didn’t drink enough to remember things in quite so much detail, but thankfully this did mean that a trip to Belfast’s A&E wasn’t on the cards and I do have a habit of going ‘arse over tit’ in nightclubs. There was the time at Renaissance in Nottingham when I fractured my elbow and then there were the cracked ribs in Cardiff but they’re different stories.

Yes, the shoes were testing me that evening. I wanted to be cool and as all the marketing companies desperate to peddle their grotty wares to us these days would say, ‘bang on trend’. But I didn’t quite make it thanks to the slippery little buggers and their insistence that I spend the entire evening looking like a contestant on ‘It’s a Knockout’.

The second and last time I wore them was an altogether incredibly dull event compared to the first time. I stayed upright, didn’t look like I was doing any kind of winter sports and took them off at the end of the night thinking to myself, ‘they’re a tad high if I’m going to do the Great North Run this year…..’
And they were. Because I did, in just over 2 hours.

*Sarah Jessica Parker – The clotheshorse from SATC**
**Sex and the City

Does Yves Saint Laurent work in fleece?

Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, I went for a teeny tiny run last night. Granted, I was jacked up on gabapentin, but I did it. Probably only half a mile at most but it felt good to just have a little run. Perhaps the orthotics are working and I won’t need the extra cryo-therapy after all.

Anyway, back to the main attraction, my shoes! Next up are a fabulous pair of Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche monster wedges. Check out these babies, so elegant and so bloody high I’ve only worn them once. I fell in love with them when I saw them, six straps, four buckles and a great chunk of wood wrapped in the softest smoothest black leather; these shoes invite you to totter and quite frankly if you’re going to wear them, it’s a given that you will. Honestly, these shoes are for ladies who are able to just stand around next to a pool in Miami and sip a glass of champagne all night. They’re not for northern lasses who drink real ale, get caught out in the rain and occasionally decide to try out karate moves in the middle of Barkers Pool, whilst dodging students urinating on the cenotaph. Google those last five words and you’ll get my drift.

I think what I’m trying to say is this; I will never, ever get another opportunity to wear these shoes and keeping them is just fooling myself that I’m one of those glamorous women that roll out of nightclubs at 4am still looking fabulous. Regardless of the neuroma these shoes are just not for me. I think I bought them because I had visions of myself being one of those tall, lithe ladies that sparkle all night long. In reality I’m the one stood in the corner picking dog hairs off my fleece. Goodbye Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche beauties, I have accepted who I am and I have accepted my hairy fleece, for the hairy fleece means only one thing. A big hairy dog that loves me regardless of my shoes.

Ibiza 1997

Picture the scene, Ibiza 1997; foam parties, Manumission sex shows, sunsets at Café del Mar, Renaissance at Pacha, Divine at Privilege and I was there with a suitcase full of shoes.

I had the little white strappy numbers that I wore four years later on my wedding day; we’ll talk about them some other time; some canvas pumps with thick rubber soles and the Destroy Blue wedges that were and still are ‘well fierce’. That was a fantastic holiday, me and the white strappys danced at Manumission until 7am, as I recall Sonique played that night but I could be wrong; it’s 14 years ago and I’ve been to a lot of clubs since then, life has become a blur.

There came a point that night or possibly morning when the sex show started and I stopped dancing long enough to think, “screw this, I need some sleep”. It was a bit boring and being 5’1” I saw bugger all other than Mike’s baldy head bobbing up and down like a sweaty nodding dog. It was all rather unsavoury if you ask me, but I am English you know.

Anyway we left after the sun had risen looking slightly dishevelled with the white strappy shoes more dirty grey than white; it was so bad I had to wash my feet before hitting the sack. I have many photos of that holiday, generally my husband stood in front of some landmark in the day or a sunset in the evening but I have one photo that sums me up completely. A little shop in Ibiza town caught my eye and I knew I had to commit the place to a slightly blurry photograph. I wonder if it’s still there.

I'll take them!

The shop assistant watched me suspiciously as I wandered around the shop picking out my favourite shoes. I didn’t know at the time but it seems that in high-end retail units they always display the smallest size that they have, I realised this after asking her three times if they had certain pairs in my size and she always replied, ‘the smallest size is the size on display’, who would have thought it eh? It didn’t take me long to realise that there was probably only four pairs in my size in the entire shop. I’m a 35.5 and for those that don’t know European sizes that translates to “effin’ small”. When trying three of the pairs on I walked out of them like an infant practising in mommy’s shoes, but the pair that had the strap across and the cute gold button was the perfect pair, heels like skewers, jet black exterior, grey leather lining, did I mention the heels? Oh yeah baby.

It was only when I uttered the immortal words ‘I’ll take them’ that the snooty assistant seemed to thaw. Very soon I was skipping back up King’s Road suddenly feeling a lot less hung over and sweaty. To celebrate parting with an inordinate amount of money for some bits of leather we popped in to The Cadogan Arms on King’s Road to partake in their finest burger. We utilised four seats; me, my husband, Mel and the shoes.

I have a number of memorable moments wearing those Manolos. First outing was for the Parry wedding which I believe was a good night, can’t remember much of it to be honest though I do remember thinking how comfortable the shoes were even after three hours of dancing. Then there was the interview; I got the job and it was definitely down to the shoes, not how I interviewed on the day.

The last time I wore the Manolos was exactly 4 years ago at Fountains Abbey attending a wedding. It was about two weeks after the devastating floods in Yorkshire and I know that’s when I last wore them because I noticed the mud and grass still on the heels when I got them out yesterday to take the photo. Oooops.

Happy Anniversary for yesterday Mr & Mrs Shearer.

M-M-M-My Manolos

So what shoes are first up to tell my story? It’s probably going to have to be my first pair of Manolos which I admit, I’m not yet ready to sell. They are very personal as my lovely husband bought them from the commission fee from his first library music album. I remember going to the shop in London like it was just yesterday and opening the door to the smell of (sorry vegetarian friends) leather…..maybe I’m not into shoes after all but have a leather fetish….just a thought. Anyway, as I remember the evening before had been spent with our friend Mel who we hadn’t seen for a while so there was the usual level of London fuelled inebriation and a late night well into the wee hours. The morning after I felt charming…..perfect for shopping for a pair of shoes that would set me back a mortgage payment.
Off we trotted across London before realising half The Tube wasn’t working. So picture this, it’s a hot summer’s day, we’re all nursing a hangover and we have to walk about 2 miles. For me, the word 'minging' comes to mind.
The look on the shop assistant’s face when I rang the door-bell (yes you have to ring the bell to gain access to the premises) was priceless. You know that bit in Pretty Woman where the assistant thinks Julia Roberts is a hooker without money? Yeah…..a bit like that.

Touching the Void

There is only one problem with going for the cryo again; I have to pay for it again. So here’s where the shoes come in. I’ve decided to sell my herd to pay for the procedure. You might not think selling shoes is a good idea but trust me, ebay is a constant conveyor belt of high quality, used shoes. I should know, I bought a once worn pair of £750 Jimmy Choo boots for a fraction of their retail value a few years ago. Brown, pointy, 3 inch heel…..hmmmmmmmm….sorry I digress.

I started to drag all the shoes boxes out and suddenly I realised that all of these shoes had been places with me, they had been to a party, a wedding, a funeral, a holiday; they were part of my history, my shoes told my story. They told me about the person I’d wanted to be and the persona I’d presented to others, they reminded me of good times and bad. When I got drunk and promised ‘never again’, when I danced all night in Ibiza until I couldn’t feel my feet any more, or the night I needed a ‘piggy-back’ to the car park because my feet hurt so much in those purple suede platforms. All in all I had almost 30 pairs of shoes and boots to move on either through sales or charity. I had become a shoe horder (some may say, 'herder'). Next stop 'A Life of Grime'.

And the weird thing, I’m actually looking forward to parting company with them because it means I can get the cryo and focus on running next year’s London Marathon, which is my ultimate goal. Oh yeah and I get some space back in my house. If you’ve visited me recently you may have noticed the space under my stairs is no longer a space, it’s crammed full of boxes. I would like to see the void again.

Comfortably Numb.

At the start of April 2011, I returned to see my podiatrist and he scanned my foot again. The good news was that the neuroma had shrunk by 80% but the bad news was that the bones in my foot were rubbing the 20% of what was left. This was the cause of the continued discomfort and pain.

Robin, my podiatrist, (www.thebarnclinic.co.uk) was still keen to give the foot more time to heal as he advised that inflammation from the procedure could be the cause of the pain. Being the eternal optimist that I am, I went with that suggestion and agreed to try new orthotics to spread the weight across the front of my biomechanically deformed and useless tarsal area.

So the orthotics (http://bit.ly/mhkQnm) have been in my shoes now for just over a month and though my foot does feel eased when I’m wearing them, as soon as I go back to barefoot the pain revs up a notch, so I think I’m going to go again for another round of the cryo-injection therapy. Robin seems to think if we give it a really good blast this time around then there's a 50% chance the nerve might die back never to return again, which is a good and bad thing. It does mean I’ll have a patch on my foot which will always be numb; no nerve = no feeling; but it does mean that the neuroma can’t come back. Ever.

Goodbye, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodnight.

The elevated foot

Surgery for a Morton’s Neuroma has quite a high incidence of complication; in some cases something called a ‘Stump Neuroma’ can form. This is when the nerve ending that was cut becomes inflamed and creates another neuroma. All in all, I was relieved to find the cryo option and not have to go down the surgery route. The day after the procedure I took it easy and restricted the amount of standing and walking I did. Within a few weeks just as my podiatrist had told me, the nerve that had been frozen ‘woke up’ and started to tingle, but over Christmas I was relatively pain free and until the end of February it all seemed to be going as planned. I’d been rationing my painkillers (Gabapentin / Neurontin) but now the all too familiar numbness and pain was starting to creep back in. It seemed that Morton had brought his neuroma back to camp out in my left foot.….

The next tentative step

In December 2010 almost a year since first seeing my GP and after waiting for four months to get surgery on the NHS I decided I couldn’t wait any longer. I was in real, serious pain now, just wearing socks or tights restricted the mobility in my foot and gave me pain. The cold weather only exacerbated the problem and I could no longer wear the open toed flats, which allowed more movement across my foot. I was limping quite noticeably and my knee and hip had started to hurt as my entire gait was thrown out of sync. So I made the move to look to pay for my surgery. Luckily whilst researching the options I found something called cryo injection therapy where a small probe is inserted into the foot and the nerve is frozen over two separate three-minute periods. This high intensity freezing kills the nerve and allows it to die back past the scar tissue, the body breaks the dead nerve down and over a three to four month period new nerve grows back but importantly it grows back without the painful scar tissue. I couldn’t believe that my home city actually had a clinic offering this service and within a week I’d had my initial consultation and the procedure done. Unlike surgery I didn’t need crutches, I didn’t have stitches, there was no air cast for at least two weeks and I could be back on my feet after just 24 hours. I honestly can’t believe that this procedure isn’t offered on the NHS. Imagine being an employer and losing a key employee for at least two weeks and then upon their return them being virtually immobile? And the cost? Well it was a two thirds of the cost of surgery.

A few concessions....

So after the confirmation that I did indeed have a neuroma I had to make some changes; now it might seem that making small changes like only wearing flat, wide fitting shoes and not running anymore would not be too much of a problem but being 5’1’’ I suddenly felt really small and going from marathon running to no running meant I put weight on. And every time I opened my wardrobe the shoes gathering dust in there were a constant reminder of when I felt more elegant, tall and confident. Now when I shopped for shoes I didn’t shop for ones I liked anymore, I shopped for how flat they were, how wide they were, how unrestrictive they were and I hated every minute of it.

The Kurt Geiger concession in House of Frasers, Dune and Nine West were strictly off limits or my mood would darken and I would slip into the pouty, it's not fair, stampy foot, but not the one that hurt, routine.

I hear you saying 'get over it, they are only shoes'. But even before Carrie Bradshaw had been a twinkle in Candace Bushnell's eye I had been obsessed by beautiful, elegant, high, pointy shoes and now they pinched me like a spiteful four year old with psychopathic tendencies. My shoes had become a juvenile Dexter.

How it all began

Although I knew it before it had been confirmed, in May 2010 my podiatrist confirmed my worst fears, I had a Morton’s Neuroma in the third web space on my left foot. A thickening of the nerve had, over a period of time created scar tissue which in turn gave me burning sensations in my foot and aching and numbness in my fourth toe. The pain had been my constant companion just a few weeks earlier on my 26.2 mile journey from Greenwich to The Strand as I completed the London Marathon. I know running was a contributory factor to my pain but I had tried for four years to get through on the ballot and finally 2010 was my year for success, nothing was going to stop me, including the pain. After all I’d had it bubbling away for about a year already. I knew what the prognosis was in January when I went to see my GP, even though she hadn’t got a clue what the cause of the pain was, so I went ahead with the training and the race. It was worth it, it was one of the best days of my life and I’ll never forget how emotional I got pushing myself mentally and physically to the finish line. But it did pretty much end my five-year running habit.

9VCJUT28C3RE