I’ve had some messages asking me to explain the title of my blog, so get yourselves comfortable and I will tell you the whole sorry saga.
I’m quite tall for a woman, and I was pretty tall in school. I longed to be a dinky little thing, one of those cute girls the rugby blokes would be quick to take under their wing and look after. No such luck. So, I slouched. I wore Doc Martin boots, long skirts edged with tiny mirrors and grungy tops. All through sixth form, I was group-less, so belonged to the group of all the people who didn’t belong to any group.
When I was 18, I decided against taking up my place in University and moved to Europe instead. I swapped the grunge for crisp white shirts and smart jeans, and if I was feeling particularly adventurous, a jaunty neck-scarf. The next step was exchanging my Doc Martins for elegant, Italian-made leather ankle boots, with a glorious heel.
Well, it was a life-changer. I did not walk, I strode. I sashayed. Head and shoulders back, I adored strutting my stuff. I had a bit of a setback in Poland though, when a bunch of friends and I headed off to stock up on cheap fags and beer. We ended up staying in a dodgy hostel where we were told to leave our shoes outside the door. Polish tradition, no?
The next morning, my beautiful boots were gone. I cried. A lot. I drove back home in a borrowed pair of too-small flip-flops. Lesson learned, I saved up for another pair and never looked back. Until MS came along. I may as well have been walking on stilts. I simply could no longer wear heels at all.
My ‘walk’ became a ridiculous shuffle, eyes downcast, watching the floor. Foot drop was the bane of my life. So, with a heavy heart, I gave my last two pairs of heels to a good friend of mine. It was a sad, sad day. And since then, the closest I have to heels are cowboy boots. How depressing.
I miss my walk. I miss striding and sashaying. I hate foot drop. But it’s happened. I have a whole bunch of beautiful flat shoes. But, hey, I still stumble…
