Shoes in the City


Over the weekend I contemplated buying a $700 pair of shoes. At the same time, I reflected on whether I had become a wanker.

The first justification for considering splashing out such an obscene amount of dosh on a pair of hell on heels is they are Christian Louboutin (see image above). For anyone who knows their Manolo Blahniks from their Jimmy Choos that would be rationalisation enough but I have never considered myself to be one of those people. In fact, I just googled “most expensive shoes” so I would have examples for that sentence but then simultaneously realised I automatically knew at least two so didn’t need the search results at all, which is a bit of a worry.

The second validation is that I am soon to become the beneficiary of a lucrative and unexpected tax return so I feel like I should waste some of what is actually my own money on something spectacularly frivolous  – just like successive Australian governments have done with my hard-earned over recent years.

Thirdly, while I was sick last week, I watched both Sex and the City movies back-to-back and had a pseudo-revelation. Watching the films about a bunch of forthright women in their 40s while also being a relatively forthright woman in her 40s, meant the story-line appeared to have more resonance than ever before – or perhaps it was my fever. Finally I understood that shoes can maketh the woman. Especially if she is the writer of funny, anecdotal-filled ditties, complete with real-life people and the sexually suggestive shenanigans of single life.  I also learned that it is always a bad idea to wear a bird in your hair on your wedding day, even if Vivienne Westwood has given you a $100,000 gown, and you shouldn’t be surprised if you’re left at the altar.

The fourth rationalisation is that these red-soled sex-stilettos will make my legs look fabulous.

The fifth reasoning is that this weekend I also bought a shoe rack, perhaps in recompense for my lack of courage – or maybe my innate Scottishness – for not purchasing this most luxurious of shoe labels. While I was assembling the shoe rack, which I debated for a day or more before attempting, I shook my head when I realised how big it was. I’m never going to fill this, I said to myself. No siree. I’ve only got about six pairs. Well, tonight I learned that I own 17 pairs of shoes – yes that’s 17. I was shocked. Due to the very parlous state of cupboard space in my apartment, I had shoes stuffed all over the place, so had no idea that perhaps I was more girly than I ever knew. Admittedly I have as many pairs of flats as heels so my femininity epiphany is more measured than magnificent but perhaps it does explain my current obsession with Mr Christian Louboutin.

The sixth rationale is I have my annual date with my hot racing car driver friend – who has been spending some time on the V8 podium of late – in two weeks and this time, after a number of years of flirtation, methinks we might finally get out of first gear – especially if I wear these sex-on-legs, Himalayan-high heels

Lastly, and most importantly, the final justification for buying a pair of ridiculously over-priced, quite possibly very wanky, French, shag-certainty shoes is because I want to – and that’s enough of an excuse for me any day.