You might remember that my husband bought me this lovely pair of Louboutins for Christmas last year. I think they are beautiful and, let’s face it, receiving them for Christmas is about the only way I, an unwaged stay at home mamma, would ever get to wear them. The problem is that they’re a little too tight for my fan-like feet. I have won them once out, during our Pergolesi Stabat Mater concert. The pain on my face was not just an expression of the lamentation of the Virgin for her crucified son, I can tell you. That was in March and I haven’t worn them since.
The other problem is the heel. In my life, I’m usually in flats, although my lovely suede wedge ankle boots make a 3 inch heel incredibly comfy. I’m just not used to wearing heels this high. I know the girls on a Friday or Saturday night “down Beckenham,” wear heels much higher, but they are obviously of a different generation. I am certain that a wave of back injuries will only become apparent in about twenty years’ time. But high heels are equivalent to glamour, of course, and wearing them has become an essential skill for girls. And have you seen how thin these heels are? The stupid fashion people who design clothes only for size 2 women have cast their malevolent spell over these too. I expect they are far less wobbly if one weighs only 5 stone.
Anyway, stupid fashion people; misogynistic patriarchal hegemony or not, these shoes are a beautiful, thoughtful present. What a shame to leave them lying rejected in their scarlet bag just because I cannot make the time to accustom myself to the ways of the world. So I am breaking my shoes in gradually. I hope that by the time I sing the Messiah in the spring, I’ll be skipping down the street in them. To try and appear a little less Quasimodo-esque for my new choir’s carol concert (in the Langley Park Performance Space on 9th December) would be a good first step.