For years, I was wedded to my stilettos and spikes. Now, who needs them? Give me plimsolls, brogues, loafers and flats
The last snap of my wedding night was taken at 2.30am, after a marathon disco reception. I’m walking the few minutes home for a nightcap, with a convoy of friends. I started the night wearing a green lamé frock and my “bridal” Mary Jane shoes: black, suede, ankle straps, pointed toes and a 3.5in spike heel. I called them, as most Manolo owners seem to, “the comfiest stilettos on Earth”. Relatively speaking, this was true. Nonetheless, the picture shows me hobbling up the hill in stockinged feet, champagne-stained shoes swinging from my fingers. I ached for a fortnight.
I wonder now if my poor hooves could do that again, having been mostly housebound for months. After a lifetime in vertiginous heels, have my feet spread, widening permanently, never to squeeze into a court shoe again? I may never find out. Since lockdown I have donated, sold and given away dozens of pairs of heels, and have no plans to buy more.
