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.