I spent nearly an hour circling the Selfridges shoe department. This is actually not typical behaviour for me, I usually buy online, money spent without interacting with another human barely counting at all. I'm not quite sure what came over me, possibly Mr Trefusis saying the shoes I was wearing were "very eighties" or the sight of my pasty, flaking ankles in the blissful sunshine, or M trying to discourage me from buying Serge Lutens Persil flavour scent with talk of shoes, but suddenly I was overcome with shoe inadequacy and could think of nothing else. I went with the intention of buying something cheap (I can hear several of my friends laughing from a distance of hundreds of miles as I type that).
Lots of stuff was hideous. Clunky, but not in an honest to goodness, shin kicking way. The Louboutin concession - although not hideous, rather a bit dull - filled me with Jean-Paul Sartre-esque despondency. So many people queueing up to drop £500 on painfully high heels, lots of them (and this perhaps the fault of the buyers rather than Mr Louboutin, may his twinkly toes be blessed for all eternity) a bit bof (avec tout le respect que je vous dois, M Louboutin).
There were a few pairs of the most magnificent Vionnet shoes. I can't find a picture online of the ones I kept coming back to. They were much nicer than any of these ones but they give you a vague idea. The best thing about Vionnet is the designer's name: Rodolpho Paglialunga. I mean, come on. If there's a better name out there, I want to know about it. Here he is looking like he has misplaced his vestments on the Vatican Sexy Priests calendar:
Frustratingly I can't find a picture of the Lanvin platforms I fell in love with either but they were two tone nude, properly stompy and had beautiful soles. If I had £460 down the back of the sofa, that's where it would be going.
With all possible respect, Kurt Geiger, what the FUCK do you think you are doing selling own label shoes for 360 quid??? That nice Mr Ferragamo round the corner 'only' charges £260. Get a grip. And while I'm chastising, Marc Jacobs you are a wonderfully clever and handsome man and you like fancy dress and Spongebob. I have nothing but love for you. But get the fuck over the shoes with faces already. If I wanted a pet, I would get a pet (Oh yes, I already have, that's going brilliantly, ahem). If I want shoes, I get shoes (in a moment of inattention from the overlords at HSBC). I do not want 'fun' ballet flats with the face of mice and nor does anyone sane above the age of 11. NO.
Rupert Sanderson, keep up the solid good work. I love you, your weakness for asymmetry and your loyalty to patent. I am willing to overlook your friendship with Sam Cam, which, given that it is election season, is very good of me.
There is a very good sale on at the Poste Mistress designer bit of Office at the moment if all this shoe talk is putting you in the mood.
I have to make a hideously complex Australian Womens Weekly birthday cake tonight in the shape of an island, my annual act of charity towards a colleague who hates baking. I wonder what my oven, the 'Competence Trophy' will come up with, it is unlikely to be anything good. Moreover, I have been disastrously accident prone in the last 24 hours and anything that could be dropped, spilled or broken has been. This fills me with foreboding. Amusingly the cake is supposed to have a volcano made from an ice cream cone on the corner, so I find myself wondering how I could make a gigantic ash cloud to hover over it. Candy floss perhaps?