Girls Defying Gravity - The Mystery of Heels.

Today I've been pondering about heels. More specifically, stiletto heels. Are they just a sexy, fun yet feminine item of footwear that can be used as an offensive weapon when the moment demands? Or are they really a more sinister, uncomfortable form of women's subjugation designed by men to ensure that we can't do a runner? If so (or not) why are they so flawed in their design? Why do they hurt so much? And why do so many of my regular stiletto donning friends suffer so much sciatica?

The reason for my pondering is that I have at last managed to find a pair that fit fairly comfortably for an hour or so, that I can balance upon and totter around in, defying gravity, without requiring a visit to A&E. But only for an hour or so. Anybody who really knows me knows what a miracle this actually is, having fat feet which are shaped like divers flippers. I even managed to down a few glasses of vino one night and stayed vertical. But that doesn't mean to say they would be my first choice of footwear for the school run. Yet some of the younger yummy mummies manage it. I saw at least five women today wearing them in the school playground.

I was born in the 70s and so misspent my youth in the 90s. Having missed the 80s wave of stilettos, leg warmers and power suits (I was only 10), I went clubbing to the backdrop of the indie and Brit-pop scene. My chosen foot attire at the time was either the Doc Marten boot, Converse baseball boots or a pair of Adidas Gazelles. But to be fair, back then, even the ravers, clubbers and trendies at the time wouldn't have been seen dead trying to throw shapes in the inappropriately sculptured stilt-etto. So twenty-odd years later, this rekindled love affair and “must-have” mentality with stilettos is an absolute mystery to me. Everybody with a pair of boobs or moobs wears them. And the “nearer to heaven” the better!

What I find even more amusing is that so much time is spent talking about them when they're being worn. Literally most of the ladies I caught up with at my school reunion the other week at some point spent time talking about their heels. At the start of the evening it was all “Ooh, love the shoes! Where did you get those from?” and “Ooh yes, I love Next heels, they're just go with EVERYTHING”. By the end of the evening women were groaning in agony and leaning on bars and chairs and tables, bent forward like pensioners crying “Ooh my f***ing feet are killing me” and “I knew I should have brought my flats to change into”. To be fair, I was one of them.

I can only assume that this latest craze is born out of the wine-bar era, our younger ladies having given up clubs and discos for fear of either being violently or sexually assaulted or such venues being seen as uncool and passé. Let's face it, they can't possibly be going dancing in them - if they are, I literally guarantee they are going home with grubby feet, having spent most of the night dancing around them rather than in them! And you can't run from a psycho-rapist thug in heels. It's impossible. I tried to run for a taxi in a lesser cheap pair once and spent the following three days with an ankle propped up and a selection of frozen foods balanced on it. No,  I reckon our young girls must be frequenting restaurants and wine bars these days. At least in the relative sophistication of a softly lit wine bar, they can hover around looking gorgeous, leaning on the bar (or each other) for support with one hand and grasping the stem of an elegant wine glass with the other, scanning the room for psycho-rapists to avoid whilst doing meerkat impressions trying to spot the local eye-candy.

The height of these shoes aside (and Gawd are some of them high!), does anybody actually have feet shaped like a stiletto - a protruding middle toe with the other toes daintily tapering around it to create a perfectly symmetrical triangular shape? Because mine really aren't that shape. I'm wondering if perhaps I ought to get some foot surgery done because that is the only way I'm ever going to be able to join the masses and wear them without looking like a four year old doing her first ballet class.

Heels. A political minefield. Give me a pair of flip-flops any day.

1st September 2012 - Reunions Without Regrets

There can be nothing that hammers home the cruel reality of the merciless march of time like a school reunion. And there can be nothing worse than facing your old classmates and contempories after 21 years without a glass of wine to hide behind. Never one to shy away from a challenge of course, I decided it was time to kick the drink and the junk food the very same week as my High School reunion, opting to drive rather than drown my sorrows in a nice glass of rose vino!

If I'm honest I was searching for excuses not to go right up until I got into the car. The baby is teething and miserable, I'm suffering post-pregnancy weight gain, my hair is breaking off at the roots, and I have a wardrobe of clothes that would make Gok Wan scream in horror. There were so many reasons NOT to go that I was amazed to find myself sitting outside my friend Alison's house, papping the horn ready to whisk her off to the venue. Part of the reason I had got this far was out of guilt that I had badgered another old classmate, Karen, to organise the bloody thing and took no part in helping with the preparations other than sending one or two emails to a few folk who needed to know about it! Despite this, I was absolutely definitely only going for an hour or two. I confidently declared to Alison that I would only show my face and would be leaving by ten at the latest.

I eventually staggered out, tottering on painful heels, at 1am the following morning, having had the most fantastic evening - still sober and safe to drive a couple of friends home. Despite a few awkward moments when old chums smiled and greeted me warmly and I didn't have a bloody clue who they were, It had been a fabulous night if for nothing more than the embarrassing foot-in-mouth, dig-a-hole, crawl-up-your-own-backside moments of my friends.

One example was my friend Clare's bottom-clenching case of mistaken identity, when she walked up to the pretty, red-headed Julie, threw her arms about her and shouted "Hi Sarah! How are you? How's John?" to which Julie politely disentangled herself from Clare's warm embrace and replied "I'm not Sarah." indicating to the only other, rather plump, red-head in the building.

And then there was Emma who patted the tummy of another old classmate, squealing "Oh Debbie, congratulations! When are you due?" to which Debbie replied "No, I'm not pregnant, I'm just fat." Please ground, swallow me up!


The evening flew, the conversation flowed and it was great to see so many old faces. I particularly enjoyed having a laugh with the few lads I recognised, mostly due to the fact there weren't many of them that turned up and of those that did, I didn't recognise half of them! But what upset me the most was seeing the last twenty-odd years etched on the faces of my old classmates. I wrongly presumed that me and the friends I have kept in touch with since school hadn't aged too badly in comparison, but then when I heard a particularly older-looking class peer declare the same to her friend, I realised that it must be that I'm just used to seeing my face and the faces of my friends, and that familiarity doesn't make the passage of time so distinct.

I left the reunion glad I had attended and happy to have caught up with so many lovely people, but I can honestly say that I had no desire to add any phone numbers to my contacts list. I felt more convinced than ever that I have, in fact, kept in touch with the people who mean the most to me and that whilst it was nice to catch up with some of the others, the moments we shared and connections we made, whilst important, have long since gone and are best kept in the past.