Well-Heeled?

Witch is thinking about the heels-versus-trainers issue...

Yesterday I decided that I was drab. Devoid of glamour. Vogue-ly destitute. Bad knee or no bad knee, it simply isn't acceptable to rock up to rehearsals in seven-year-old track suit bottoms and a scraggy ponytail. So, I put some heels on. Nothing fancy - a simple gold court shoe. Just enough to give me a 'lift'.

They killed me.

All day spent dancing, running and jumping on a pair of already fragile feet was not conducive to tottering half a mile in five-inch lovelies. The journey home was pinched, to say the least.

I was doing my best not to limp when I saw a woman, a few yards in front of me, heading towards the tube. I had to crane my neck to see her before she vanished into the seething mass of commuters. She was beautifully dressed in what was obviously a very expensive trench coat, beautifully cut and lapping exquisitely around an inky pencil skirt and black lace tights. She looked fabulous.

As always, with matters of fashion, I was intrigued. How had she chosen to set it all off, I wondered. A platform boot? A patent stiletto? Or (my choice) a suede Mary Jane? I ducked around a couple of suits to get a closer look at her feet.

She was wearing trainers.

Not even classy trainers. Proper old, muddied up Reeboks. I felt as if someone had promised me a night at the opera and turned up with tickets for Blackpool Pier. I know she was on her way home, but still? Even a pair of black ballet pumps would just about have done. Anything but grubby old sneakers.

I walked the last hundred yards to the train with my head held high, steeling myself against the pain and fighting the limp with every step.

I might be heading for arthritis, but by Blahnik I will do it in style.