Sunday, 31 July 2016

Shiny, happy people...

Gathering together my outfit for last night's 1920's night out, I realised that I didn't have any appropriate footwear to match my flapper ensemble.  I pulled out every pair of shoes from my wardrobe, but as far as I remember, the Bright Young Things of the '20's didn't choose to wear wedges, flip-flops, Chelsea boots or Converse pumps (daughter number two's if you paint splattered) with their beaded and fringed dresses.

And then I had a light bulb moment.

Miss R's contribution to my hen weekend many years ago, was a pair of shoes for all fourteen of us to wear on the journey out.  The idea actually was that we wore them for the whole weekend, but we all went off that idea when Miss R (always ever so organised) ran out of plasters to cover the numerous blisters which were popping up all over the place.  So the shoes were consigned to the top shelf in my wardrobe.  This is where all those things go that I can't bear to throw away, and it currently houses two posh hats, I bowler hat, my kids' first shoes, a self portrait of son number two (involving pasta and a very large pair of ears) and these shoes.

The Hen Weekend shoes were bought for the princely sum of £1.50 per pair (no expense spared) and are beige leather peep toe shoes, with silver glittery panels.  They sound (and look) revolting, but were pretty damn perfect for a 1920's night.

It was only when I slipped them on while I was getting ready that I remembered why they have sat unworn for so many years.  Within eight seconds of putting them on, the glitter had started to detach itself from the shoes, and attach itself to the carpet.  Reg found this highly interesting, and was soon resembling something out of a Disney cartoon, twinkling softly on the bedroom carpet like a fairy dog.

I could barely walk in them, and I tried to remember whether I had found this a problem on their one and only previous outing.  Well, most of the journey was spent sitting (in cars, buses and on a plane) so I suppose that I never really walked anywhere in them.  I do vaguely remember walking from the plane to the transfer taxi when we landed, but any pain would have been masked by the nine gin and tonics I'd had on the plane (those were the days when gin didn't always equal a headache).

Back to today.  I persevered with the shoes for another five minutes, by which time, I had left a trail from the bedroom to the hall, and a small blister was starting to form where my big toes and the peep hole part were having a ruck about who was in charge.  Obviously my derriere is not the only thing that has increased in size over the years. 

So the shoes were removed, much to the relief of my feet, and I eventually settled for a pair of 1950's kitten heels which I found squirreled away in my fancy dress box.

So my shoes are thirty years too modern.

But as I am ninety six years older than the event requires, I'm sure no one will be worried about my shoes...
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