I spent Friday night in the company of my lovely friend Neil (he sometimes reads my blog which is why I've used the adjective 'lovely' to describe him. But he is lovely anyway) visiting Tate Britain which had a late exhibition on. God knows what I was thinking but I decided to wear to London my gorgeous black patent platform high heeled lace up brogues, which I usually wear to get in and out of cars or taxis.
Just savour that description a moment - 'high heels', 'patent' 'platform' 'lace ups' - any fellow shoe lover will understand how I feel as I type those words. They look great too, sort of sexy but like they mean business and also a tiny bit edgy with their platform sole and a little bit camp with their patent shininess. I could go on forever going on about how much I love my shoes but there is one thing that I cannot love about them - they bloody hurt!
I think I imagined I would just jump on a train, then a Tube and then stroll elegantly around the Tate in what Amy Winehouse would describe as my 'f*** me pumps' except they wouldn't be as gross as that if they could speak; my shoes would say it in French.
It transpired that I walked in said shoes more than anticipated and, worse still, when we got to the gallery, we spent ages walking around looking for the exhibits following possibly the world's most obscure map. By the time we left I was in agony but trying to look as if I wasn't although a couple of times I had to hang on to poor Neil for support as I trolled along in my tarts trotters and even considered asking him to do my laces up when they came undone to save me the discomfort of getting down to floor level. We found somewhere to eat after a stroll that I bore stoically (yes I did Neil!) and I gladly kicked them off, or rather unlaced them, under the table and breathed a sigh of relief, hoping a small glass of wine would anaesthetise my feet a little and allow me to put them on again for the homeward leg of my journey.
The problem is I actually have silly feet - wide with high insteps and little stumpy toes. Its genetic as my sister and mum have exactly the same feet. Indeed, we have all bought the same sandals to accommodate our unhappy feet. My Wolkie sandals (I was first to get them I should like to record) are my concession to comfort. Their funky green colour appeals to me and mitigate the slightly less funky Velcro fastenings. The main thing is wearing them is like walking on air, unlike my gorgeous high heeled shoes which are like walking on pins with someone stepping on your toes every few seconds.
After seeing me in them and noting how gladsome and full of vigour I was, my mother, sister and cousin (we all have the same little fat Welsh feet) bought the same ones and we are all agree that they are shoes of wonder. We are not alone in this as our sandals sell out at an alarming rate and you have to get in there early to secure a pair for the summer.
Flora took a photo of my mother, my sister and me wearing our Wolkies together which I have atached to this post. If you could see our faces you would see visions of seraphic bliss. I wish I could have said the same for Friday night!
Just savour that description a moment - 'high heels', 'patent' 'platform' 'lace ups' - any fellow shoe lover will understand how I feel as I type those words. They look great too, sort of sexy but like they mean business and also a tiny bit edgy with their platform sole and a little bit camp with their patent shininess. I could go on forever going on about how much I love my shoes but there is one thing that I cannot love about them - they bloody hurt!
I think I imagined I would just jump on a train, then a Tube and then stroll elegantly around the Tate in what Amy Winehouse would describe as my 'f*** me pumps' except they wouldn't be as gross as that if they could speak; my shoes would say it in French.
It transpired that I walked in said shoes more than anticipated and, worse still, when we got to the gallery, we spent ages walking around looking for the exhibits following possibly the world's most obscure map. By the time we left I was in agony but trying to look as if I wasn't although a couple of times I had to hang on to poor Neil for support as I trolled along in my tarts trotters and even considered asking him to do my laces up when they came undone to save me the discomfort of getting down to floor level. We found somewhere to eat after a stroll that I bore stoically (yes I did Neil!) and I gladly kicked them off, or rather unlaced them, under the table and breathed a sigh of relief, hoping a small glass of wine would anaesthetise my feet a little and allow me to put them on again for the homeward leg of my journey.
The problem is I actually have silly feet - wide with high insteps and little stumpy toes. Its genetic as my sister and mum have exactly the same feet. Indeed, we have all bought the same sandals to accommodate our unhappy feet. My Wolkie sandals (I was first to get them I should like to record) are my concession to comfort. Their funky green colour appeals to me and mitigate the slightly less funky Velcro fastenings. The main thing is wearing them is like walking on air, unlike my gorgeous high heeled shoes which are like walking on pins with someone stepping on your toes every few seconds.
After seeing me in them and noting how gladsome and full of vigour I was, my mother, sister and cousin (we all have the same little fat Welsh feet) bought the same ones and we are all agree that they are shoes of wonder. We are not alone in this as our sandals sell out at an alarming rate and you have to get in there early to secure a pair for the summer.
Flora took a photo of my mother, my sister and me wearing our Wolkies together which I have atached to this post. If you could see our faces you would see visions of seraphic bliss. I wish I could have said the same for Friday night!
2 comments:
I need those shoes. Are they horrendously expensive? I bet they are, good shoes always bloody are.
The most comfortable shoes I own are the evil Crocs - however, they have also caused more foot damage than any other shoe I have owned! Tendonitis, pulled ligaments, all sorts.
They truly are the Shoes of Beelzebub...
They are quite expensive. Last year I got mine for an eye wateringly pricey £70 but they've been worth every penny but Sarah's cost more this year because the pound is weak against the Euro. The fly out of the shop when they get them in because they are so comfy.
Those Crocs sound dangerous. Get some Wolkies and join us in our Wolkie Wearers club. They're an investment.
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