6 October 2017
I venture into Brizzle to shop. I must source an outfit for visiting Her Majesty in November. It all goes well to start with: I find a frock that fits, and a jacket as well, and I am about to scarper and head off for a celebratory coffee and cake. But then it is pointed out to me, by people who know about these things, because they earn commission from them, that the frock and the jacket are only the starting point. I will also need a hat-stroke-fascinator. I will need a handbag. And I will need SHOES. Would madam like to try on some shoes now, to see the full effect of the outfit? No, madam would not. Madam does not intend to buy shoes to go with the new outfit. Madam wears boots with everything. And madam does not intend to break that habit even for Her Majesty. After all, I figure, it would be impolite to hobble up to Her Majesty and ask if I could borrow her throne for a while because my feet were killing me. The shop assistants are a little fazed by this. I am a woman, am I not? I must therefore Like Shoes. I must covet bits of bejewelled plastic set on unfeasibly high heels with excruciatingly narrow pointy toe sections. I must surely want new things to wear on my feet with my new posh frock, that I cannot walk in, that rub up blisters and that make me miserable while I stand around waiting to be OBE-d. My issue is this. If I had done as all good women are supposed to, and worn unfeasibly high heels and excruciatingly narrow pointy toe sections, I would probably not have been able to do the stuff that got me the OBE in the first place. I would still be tiptoeing my way gingerly across the London streets, or hobbling to catch a train, instead of striding out purposefully telling people what namby-pamby things they were going to do next. So why would I suddenly start Liking Shoes now?
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