So, not to put myself down, but I am relating to the ugly sisters of late. Except far from falling in love with a handsome prince and desperately cramming my feet into a mysterious shoe to snare him, I’m the mug who falls in love with a pair of shoes and spends my hard earned cash on them even though they don’t quite fit, and am destined to spend the rest of my life hoping one day they’ve stretched enough to fit.
They were only half a size too small,which in the grand scheme of things, you wouldn’t think would make that much difference, especially when I have other pairs the same size that do fit.
Of course the way I try shoes on doesn’t help. The process goes like this:
Draw shoe reverently out of box.
Gaze upon it, mouth half open in awe of its beauty. Rotate it and softly stroke the suede/leather/satin (delete as appropriate)
Visualise it on my foot. It looks lovely.
Take foot out of existing shoe. This is better if it’s first thing in the morning.
Gently place it into new shoe. Use more force if necessary.
Admire and announce: ‘Yay! I love them. I’ll take them!’
Note: At no point do I put foot on the ground – the soles are fine suede, I wouldn’t want to mark them.
You can see why I am so in love with them – look:
And therein lies the problem. Because the following evening when I put my gorgeous, uber soft Katia Lombardo suede sandals on with a little black dress for dinner, the searing pain that shot through both of my feet was really quite debilitating. Not entirely unused to this, I went about my business, putting on my mascara etc etc, telling myself that they’d be fine by the time I set out.
Twenty minutes later, I took them off my angry purple crushed feet and put on an equally lovely pair, but lamented my misfortune.
Three weeks later, the shoes are still sat there, looking luxurious and lovely, stuffed to capacity with shoe-trees and tissue paper. I’m just hoping that my cobbler, with whom I’m on first-name terms – has some clever stretching piece of kit so I can debut them at Betty Blue Eyes next week.
Admit defeat? Not likely.
Admit I have fat feet? Never.