If I could, and believe me I would try were it not for the copious amounts of rain and snow we get in this country, not to mention the uncleanliness of doing so, I would clothe myself in swathes of beautiful fabric and not even bother with shoes.
When I can eventually inhabit the luscious, always-spring-like meadow world of my daydreams, I won't even need shoes. No, I shall dance and laugh with bare feet gleefully exposed and not have a care in the world. This will happen. I'm determined.
But back in the oh-so dreary real world, of course shoes, boots, trainers etc. etc. do serve a purpose. Shoes protect our feet from the elements and from that God awful pain when you stand on something sharp, pain second only to stubbing a toe; shoes keep our tootsies warm, and when chosen correctly, our shoes tell others a great deal about ourselves. That we are smart, sophisticated, girly, boyish, sporty, even rich or poor.
And it is this realisation that has caused me great concern. What are my shoes saying about me and more importantly, how has my relationship with shoes come to such dire straits?
Not only do my most used shoes contain holes the size of moon craters, but after a full-on tussle with the shoe cupboard the other morning, I realised I'm actually rather villainous with my shoes. I shun them to the dark, disorganised cupboard under the stairs alongside the vacuum cleaner, my other half's dirty work boots and with not a drop of light or comfort. Goodness, my shoes are like Harry Potter. How shameful.
To make things worse, I'm actually from a town in the UK that is famous for its shoe-making past; Northampton is home to Church's, Crockett and Jones, Dr. Martens. What is my problem?
Perhaps I favour the freedom of unconfined feet or I'm just too wrapped up in the softness and movement of clothes to really bother with rather spiritless accessories, because as it goes, I'm not too concerned with handbags either. Are shoes spiritless because they don't move in the same way as clothes do?
I'm not sure, leather, once aged is characterful and there is something rather charming about a ballet flat. They just don't have that same sense of liberation to me.
Or maybe I just haven't met that many great shoes (or just can't afford the good ones)?
I do, however, have shoes that I take care of and couldn't be without. My weekend biker boots are irreplaceable and I have a pair of Victorian lace ankle booties that I've never worn because they are far too pretty and life will only taint them.
Perhaps I am missing out on something and need to expel this rather nonchalant attitude to shoes. Heavens, the rest of womankind supposedly have gazillions of them in their wardrobes and who wouldn't wish for the collection of Carrie Bradshaw, Victoria Beckham or Imelda Marcos?
I should start a shoe fund and save up for a beautiful and ridiculously expensive pair of shoes. I will revel in the feeling of wearing them for the very first time and look after them as if they were puppies. I will stroke them, gaze lovingly at them, place them on a special shelf and take pictures of myself with them.
