Tag Archives: heels


no stumblingYup, I’m tripping, full on tripping.

Not the cheeky little stumbles outside a shop or the blasted foot drop by the car when I grab the handle and…..fall to the ground.

Nope. This is the time I really should wear my, ‘I’m Not Drunk, I Have MS’ t-shirt.

I’m tripping all over the place, and it’s embarrassing. I crashed into a wall (a wall) at the end of a lecture last week. Fail. I fell over in the newsagent’s, ‘blimey, these weekend papers get heavier every weekend, huh??’ Fail.

I took Halloween goodies to the nephews and tripped over a stray pebble. Meh. It’s getting less and less funny, if it ever was.

Why can’t I have an illness where I look completely normal? If there is such a thing.

I seem to have this weird, stompy walk, a bit like the models in Paris do on the catwalk, one foot overlapping the other. Difference is, they keep on going. And turn. With me, I overlap once and whayhey, I’m gone. Like Naomi Campbell without the, um, model looks.

It’s all the more desperate for me as I used to walk in heels. I know, me! High heels. I can’t speak of inches without wincing. Italian, finely crafted leather. Bee-Yoo-Tiful. Believe it or not, it has been remarked that I (used to) not only walk, I saaaaashay(ed). No longer. I wear flat boots for daytime and flat boots in the evening. In short, meh, frumpy.

I am often found staring at women in heels, with a longing bordering on the weird. D’ya see? Did Ya? Her??? In those – solemn, light a candle- heels? No?

Those days have long gone and as I take out my delicately-embroidered handkerchief in black, I regret. All those days I thought I looked absurd, ridiculous in high heeled boots, opaque tights and denim shorts, striding across that bridge in Austria.

If I could do it all again, I would.

Tagged , , , ,

A Day Off From MS

in my dreamsLast night, after being woken in the wee small hours yet again with nerve pain and unable to get back to sleep, my mind wandered.

Just what would it be like to have one full day off from MS? How amazing would that be?

I would spring out of bed, full of beans and head straight for a boiling hot bath, using up my dusty bottle of Matey bubbles. No non-slip bath mat today, no pesky heat intolerance.

After a long soak, I’d deftly apply my make up, managing to execute a perfect sweep of eyeliner. I’d get dressed easily, no fumbling over buttons, no tripping over my feet and I’d be able to wear jeans I haven’t fitted in over two years. And heels! Beautiful heels. How I’ve missed you. I’d put them on and not take them off all day. I would sashay everywhere. I would stride, head held high. No looking at the pavements.

In fact, I’d take the day off work and spend it walking. Just walking, even in heels. And I’d go to cute little gift shops where I’d be unafraid of picking up glass ornaments or bumping into things or small children. I’d find a really hot, really busy cafe and spend a stress-free hour sipping a coffee, people-watching. I’d call up friends out of the blue, suggesting a night out later. I’d know for sure I’d still have the energy.

On the way home I’d do all my Christmas shopping in one go, undaunted by the crowds,  balancing the bags easily, going through my long list from memory. Back home, I’d wrap and label all the gifts then cook a fiendishly complex recipe from scratch. I’d spring clean my entire house. I’d even dig out the feather duster. Then I’d do a whole pile of ironing. And spend a couple of hours weeding the garden, all before slipping in to something fabulous (with my heels, natch) and get ready to go out.

The evening would pass in a happy blur of catching up with long-neglected friends. I’d charm them with my wit and fast responses. I’d remember the punchlines to long jokes, I’d carry five drinks at a time back from the bar.

I wouldn’t come back til gone midnight, falling happily in to bed. Then I’d wake in the wee small hours. With nerve pain…

Tagged , , ,

Like, Really?

stupid high heelsBless her diamond-encrusted heart. Shortly before her £7 million wedding, Tamara Ecclestone was sent five pairs of designer flat shoes by InStyle magazine – totaling £2040 – and ‘challenged’ (yes, they used that verb) to hang up her heels and spend a week in flats. Like, OMG.

Tamara informs us that she has hundreds of pairs of heels. Well, of course. She confesses that when the box of flats arrived, ‘I was worried; to be honest, my heart sank…they kind of offend me.’ Flat shoes offend her? Oh, to face Tamara’s totes tragic challenges.

But for the sake of the article and no doubt the hefty fee and the chance to promote her new beauty line available exclusively at Harvey Nichols, she bravely found a pair she could tolerate and went to dinner. Sadly, she ‘felt really unglamorous and I think people were probably shocked to see me not in heels.’ Tamara lasted just two days, claiming ‘the shoes didn’t make me feel good…I’m definitely not going to buy any.’  Ok then.

Sharing the same article, I was expecting more of Dawn O’Porter, the TV presenter and author who was flogging her new book, yours for only £7.99. However, she went to a business meeting in flats ‘looking like an embarrassing auntie. I felt ridiculous. The meeting didn’t go well.’ Because of a pair of flats?! What planet, etc, etc.

She rose to the challenge though, and soldiered on, despite cheating by wearing a pair of Marc Jacobs heels on a night out with her husband. The next day she had dinner with her girlfriends, in, gasp, a pair of flats, and splutters, ‘I felt like Nora Batty.’ One of her friends gleefully told her she looked like her gran.

What can we possibly take away from this insightful piece of investigative journalism? That wearing flats somehow morphs previously vibrant personalities into embarrassing aunties, grans or Nora Batty? Do these outgoing women really need a pair of heels to feel normal? I fear their psyches are more fragile than they would have us believe.

Anyway, before you chuck the flats in the bin, girls, send them my way. I’m a proud member of the Flat Shoe Club (TM) and we didn’t really want you as members anyway. So there. I’m also proud to be an embarrassing auntie and am more than happy to be stumbling in flats….

Tagged , , , , ,

It’s Official – I’m A Trendsetter…

It's fashion, darlingYes, that’s right, the fashion world has finally listened to me – flat shoes are bang on trend for 2013.  Totes amazeballs or what? Crack open the Bolly, dahlings! According to Roberto Cavalli, speaking from his Milan fashion show, flat shoes are ‘cool and it’s all coming from London.’

Well, ok, I may be 150 miles from London but obviously the fashionistas have heard my anguished pleas and are taking up my cause in droves. I was far too busy to be interviewed exclusively for Vogue, but luckily, the footwear buying manager for Selfridges was quoted as saying, ‘It’s a revolution…flats are selling out across every price point.’

After MS cruelly robbed me of my high heels and sashaying walk, I have been resigned to stumbling around in flats, head no longer held high. No one was happier than me when ballet flats briefly flooded the high street, but they’re not exactly statement shoes, are they?

Over the last couple of years though, I have slowly built up a nice little collection of smart flats and casual flats, with a pair of Converse thrown in for when I want to ‘hang’ with The Teenager. He may not let me borrow his SuperDry hoodie ( trying too hard to be cool), but he’s ok with the blue Converse.

Flats to one side, what other heel-less shoes are cool? Sandals, I don’t think so. Flip-flops – have you seen someone with MS trying to walk in flip-flops? Wellies? Er, no. A fellow Tweeter suggested Doc Martin boots and I did try, but they bring back far too many tragic memories of stomping round various teenage haunts, drinking cider and black (do NOT tell The Teenager) and wearing long skirts with mirrors sewn along the hem. The stripy tights I wore with them still haunt me.

This exciting news has therefore reconfirmed our true status – where us MS’ers lead, the fash-pack follows. Of course, they are down-playing my role in this and are suggesting it’s all thanks to the Duchess of Cambridge influencing the new fashion trend, but I reckon Kate’s read my blog and has kindly championed me, bless her.

So, I am off to put together some stylish outfits, accessorised with an array of dazzling flats. I may even do that fashion-y thing of putting them in boxes and sticking Polaroids of them on the front – how divine!

Watch out world, I’ve got my sassy flats on…

Tagged , , , , , , ,

Arthouse Bingo

bingo timeThe Teenager was away at the weekend, so I went to an arty cafe/winebar/arts space to pretend to be cultivated, arty and interesting. Hopefully my pale, MS-tired face added to the mystique.

To pass the time and look as if I am writing an angsty novel, I play ‘Arthouse Bingo’. The rules are easy – a point if you can spot each of the following, and if you get to 5, buy yourself another drink:

  • Massively over-sized lampshades, preferably in black.
  • No menus, just a huge blackboard with locally-sourced food, i.e. they went to the local Lidl, bought some salami and Parma ham and slapped it on a slate tile with a couple of sliced gherkins.
  • A higher than average array of beardy men (and some women). Likewise, a higher than average amount of red trousers worn.
  • A minimum of 30 European beers with ‘ironic’ names – the easy way to get intellectually inebriated.
  • Lots of conversations starting with, ‘But is it art?’
  • A tribe of wild-looking children running amok as the parents look on indulgently, ‘Juniper, Hugo and Mabel, darlings, untie Milly and come and eat your asparagus soldiers.’
  • A book-swap corner – a bookcase where you can bring your old tat and swap it for a 1992 Driving Atlas of France.
  • Coffee must be handpicked by an organic wizard in deepest Columbia.
  • Lots of women with flowing hair, strings of hand-made beads and jangly silver bracelets.
  • Old Skool puddings on the menu – spotted dick, apple crumble, custard, etc. Such fun!
  • At least 5 terribly anguished-looking people hunched over MacBooks.
  • If there is a cinema, listen out for, ‘Oh, but I preferred the book, the original Dutch translation.’
  • Everyone speaks very LOUD. No need for music unless there is a visiting harmonica group from Patagonia.

Anyway, I passed a lovely couple of hours, braying loudly, speculating as to whether the huge painting in the bar was art or not. I rattled my beads intelligently and enjoyed my ironic glass of dry white wine. I have past form in these places – as a teenager, I considered myself to be the coolest person ever, standing by the bar, beret on, reading Jean-Paul Sartre and talking utter nonsense.

If I had the nerve (and legs), I would love to turn up in a denim mini-skirt and white stilettos. Only two flaws with that plan – one, I can’t walk in heels and two, the crowd would probably think I was the performance art…….

Tagged , , , , , ,