I’ve become accustomed to gazing wistfully at stylish footwear with a heel that extends beyond two centimetres. These weapons of mass destruction are no friend of mine. Snazzy clogs? Major trip hazards. Stilettos? Now you’re being silly. Wedges where you cannot bend your foot? The stuff of nightmares. And so, dear readers, I’ve thrown my lot in with trainers. Not the usual suspects, though. Mine are adorned with graffiti hearts, diamante stones, and other snazzy designs. I also wear Mary Janes on occasions when trainers are not de rigour. But they must have a chunky low heel and a bendable sole.
How has this sorry situation prevailed?
Come with me on a whistlestop journey which began in earnest when I was 16. Not only did I find my feet, but I also lost them as well.
“Our Dee could trip up over fresh air,” was something my Dad was prone to saying when I turned up for our weekly jaunt to my aunt’s, sporting bruised knees with an assortment of scratches. You see, I’m spectacularly clumsy. No debate on this one.
This clumsiness is usually waiting to spring into action anytime and anywhere. Most recently, I was dining at the beautiful Bailey’s Hotel in Kensington, with the esteemed editor of Sussex Exclusive, Lucy Pitts and Karl Wood, the global HR Director of Millennium Hotels and Resorts. The company was charming, conversation was flowing and the food simply divine, darlings. During one entertaining exchange, my mind drifted from the task at hand: spooning chilli sauce onto my plate. Instead, I drizzled a long trail of said red sauce on the pristine white tablecloth. Not one to cover up my mistakes, I drew attention to it, only for moments later, to decorate more of the tablecloth with the same sauce, followed by a tempura battered prawn and an al dente mange tout, joining the medley.
Anywhere but the plate was my messy mantra.
I concede, this is small change. I’m warming you up for the big stuff – what happens when I’m immersed in Dee-saster zone, sporting footwear not fit for purpose. Here’s an assortment of my most spectacular tumbles. No embellishment needed, some details omitted so as not to cause readers to abandon mid sentence.
The full on volley down the stairs
I was sixteen, in the first flush of my youth. Returning home, sporting a snazzy pair of platform shoes, I exchanged pleasantries with my mum’s guest, a student from her art class. A fine looking fellow, I decided to change into something more suited to a full-on flirt. I kept my fabulous shoes on. They elongated my legs and besides, they were at the height of shoe fashion. If you’re old enough, cast your mind back to the bands of the 70s, how they were partial to wearing the most exaggerated and frankly ridiculous platform boots and shoes. Freshly laundered, I stood at the top of the stairs. One ankle went over and down I tumbled. All I remember is mum screaming, ‘She’s dead!’ I landed at the bottom of the stairs in a crumpled heap, having knocked myself out. After that incident, although I (clearly) lived to tell the tale, I gave the platforms to my best friend, who paraded them like a pro.
The wonder of wedges
Picture the scene. I’m on Wimbledon High Street, sashaying past a snaking queue at a bus stop. I would be lying if I didn’t say that I was feeling special; fabulous dress, freshly washed hair and wearing the most divine pair of black wedges. An impulse purchase. The belief that this time it would be different. That was until my ankle gave way and I catapulted the length of the queue miraculously managing to stop myself falling flat by grabbing onto a startled passerby. I found myself mumbling, ‘I’m not drunk’ before removing the wedges and walking bare foot to my client’s office. The wedges ended up in the charity bag.
Dog poo and trouser suits
This is the most ignominious of all my tumbling tales. Conjure up this image if you can. I’m walking down Hurstpierpoint High Street, wearing a new trouser suit and sporting a pair of stiletto heels that match the suit just perfectly. It was rush hour, if indeed HPP High Street can be described as thus. The traffic was at a standstill. And then I fell. My heel had become stuck in a crack in the pavement and bang – I landed on all fours. Standing up, surveying the damage I noticed that my trousers were torn at the knees. That was nothing compared to the realisation that one of my hands had planted in a freshly laid pile of dog poo. I kid you not. My abiding memory is of a clearly concerned driver asking if I was okay. Naturally, I spurned his kindness and began foraging in my bag for the wet wipes that were mercifully there. I then had to go onto a public speaking engagement. Thankfully, I also had perfume. The fact that I was choking my audience with Miss Dior Eau De Parfum, on steroids, did not go unnoticed. Naturally, I played to the sympathies of my audience, explaining why my trousers were badly torn. I did however omit the dog poo part. There’s bringing your audience on side and having them heading for the hills when the full facts are laid bare.
I could go on but I suspect you’ve heard enough. Now you understand why it’s trainers All The Way, for me. Heels are for those willing to sacrifice comfort for their art but are nevertheless supremely confident that when they do step outside, they will not end up planted in poo.
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