The time has come

I've been holding out for as long as I could but it's six months since the cryo and there's still an equal amount of discomfort in my left foot and my wallet from paying for the surgery. So it's time. Time to start off loading the herd.
They've been sat there under the stairs longer than Harry Potter; and now they need to go. Not only are they a constant reminder that I haven't been running since April 2009 but the woodlice have set up an 'Occupy' site behind the boxes. I'm not sure what tyranny I've imposed upon them but they're unhappy, something about giving a 'Bonus' to the dog. I've tried to explain it's the name of a biscuit but they're not having it.

The shoes are going on ebay and they're going on this week. It's going to be a mammoth task getting a large number of items up there, plus I'll have to set aside a day to take them to the Post Office to send them. It's a village Postie, they don't allow more than 10 items at a time. I know, I know, 'how quaint'...

So here's a bit of a turn up for the books on this blog, a pair of flats. I'm saying au revoir to a pair of black Ravel flats with a cute buckle across the front. And yes, smart arses, I did buy them from the children's section. To be fair, they're in great condition and they'd be perfect except for one thing, they're a size 2.5 and I'm a 3 or in European terms these are 35 and I'm 35.5. It's not a lot but trust me in this instance size really does matter.

Because I have no bumpy bit at the back of my heel I struggle to keep flats on, and slingbacks daaaahling, they're a bitch. So I thought in my infinite wisdom that if I bought a pair of flats that were a bit on the small side I'd keep them on through sheer force, almost like creating a vacuum with the shoe.

Alas no. Epic fail of epic proportions riding on the back of an unfathomably large elephant called Thrud, on steroids.

What happened was my toes were squashed and my heel was rubbed raw. Yeah lesson learned. On me flats need straps. Slingbacks? Well slingbacks, just no. Small feet, wide like a hobbit with no ability to keep shoes on. Am I just a mutant?

Perhaps my X-Man name should be Stub Foot. I'd have no particularly cool powers except crap feet, not much of a pull I grant you but the franchise is being milked for all it's worth, they might get around to my character eventually.

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.