Sunday Scribblings: Shoes
I'm not like other girls - I'm rubbish at shoes. I've got big feet, am 6 feet tall and have a husband the same height as me. If I try to wear some sexy, Manolo-esque killer heels, I end up tottering around, towering over Mr Meep and looking like an under made-up drag queen.
I long for the days when all I wore were my Dr Marten boots. For my parents, the boots represented the first stages of teenage rebellion in their, up until then, text book good-girl daughter. “You’re not having a pair of those things, you’ll look bloody ridiculous.”
For me, they represented being cool. They were for people who listened to indie music (before indie became mainstream) and drank pints of cider in grotty pubs. They were for people who smoked roll-ups and drove VW Beetles.
After a long and hard-fought battle of wills, I won and bought a pair of 8-hole black DMs. £29.99 – bought on a trip to Cardiff with the wages from my Saturday job in the market bakery stall.
When I eventually got them, I wore them absolutely everywhere. I wore them to work, I wore them to school, I wore them on days out and nights in. I wore them to the pub, to clubs, to parties, to gigs.
I painted little flowers on them in art class – yellow-centered daisies in red and green and blue.
I staggered around in them the first time I got really drunk – on Diamond White cider in a dodgy Valleys nite spot.
They were witness to the heartache of unrequited teenage crushes and drunken snogs with long-haired boys with guitars. They were even there, strewn at the foot of the bed, the first time I ever had sex.
They were regular festival go-ers. They raved outside Joe Banana's blanket stall at Glastonbury, rocked out at Reading and boogied to jazz in Brecon.
They were with me on my first day at University, when I nervously shuffled into the induction session hoping there’d be someone there who wanted to be my friend.
They walked me into the church for my grandad’s funeral.
They travelled en France on an exchange trip and to Turkey for a girls-only fortnight in the sun.
They were my constant companions through my teenage years. But as I moved on, so did my footwear.
They were replaced by a pair of retro, three-stripe Adidas trainers circa 1995 that saw me through my early 20s and could tell many stories of their own.
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