Day 45 of the Shoes – In Praise of Fugly Shoes?

It is entirely likely that you will hate the shoes that I am wearing today. There is absolutely nothing pretty, elegant or stylish about them. In fact, looking at them entirely objectively they are actually kind of ugly. Or fugly as people say these days.

Schuh Patent Leather Shoes Circa 1996

About the time that I bought these shoes I was going to the Citizen’s Theatre in Glasgow on a fairly regular basis. The Citz, as it was known, is one of the oldest theatres in Glasgow and launched the acting careers Rupert Everett, Ciarán Hinds and Hugh Grant.  I saw Glenda Jackson perform there on stage as Mother Courage, I saw Alan Rickman.  The Citz attracted a lot of controversy in the Seventies and Eighties, not least because of the full frontal nudity and the fetish costumes favoured by the infamous directorial triumvirate of Giles Havergal, Philip Prowse and Robert David MacDonald.  My parents took us to the Citizen’s Theatre pretty much monthly from the time that I was about 11 years old onwards.  I loved it. One performance of Hamlet that I saw featured the lead actor wearing a straight-jacket and a pair of cloven hooves.  These shoes remind me of that performance. Sometimes shoes are about more than aesthetics.

Take Lady Gaga for example. More than a few people don’t get Lady Gaga. They particularly don’t get her prediliction for wearing strange looking shoes.

If you have been living somewhere without access to television or newspapers for a while or generally ignore pictures of people in the music industry (hi Dad) you will have no idea who Lady Gaga is.  If so,  I refer you to Exhibit A: Lady Gaga at the Grammy  Awards last week:

Lady Gaga wears provocative and slightly odd outfits. A while back she shared with a few members of the press that she might just be a tiny wee bit of an hermaphrodite.  Shocked journalists examined her groin for the signs of non-ladylike lumps for quite a while afterwards. As for myself, I look at her feet.

Roll the clock back to 1970 when a chap named David Bowie caused rather a lot of fuss by dressing up as a lady-boy on the album cover of The Man Who Sold the World:

I believe that David Bowie may have a little bit of a penis too. He is also known for wearing some rather nice platform boots.

Interestingly Lady Gaga and David Bowie have both studied mime and dance with avant garde theatre performers – David Bowie worked with Lindsay Kemp and Lady Gaga has worked with performance/burlesque artist Lady Starlight.

Both are consummate show-people to the extent that if either walked into your life using their real identities, namely David Jones or Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta, you probably would not recognise them.

Every time, therefore, that I read a snotty newspaper article wondering what on earth Lady Gaga is wearing and why, I get cross.  I have been wondering why I get so cross for some time now.

Many years ago, my mum met and fell in love with my dad at the University of Illinois graduate school at Urbana-Champaign.  My mum was a New York slick chick, an tiny ex-ballet dancer with a brain the size of a planet and a smashing pair of legs. My dad was a boy from Paisley with a slight speech impediment (which he has since obliterated).  They fell in love and my mother was convinced to leave the Land of the Free in favour of what she thought was the Land Where Everyone Lived in Castles.  When she arrived in Paisley, Scotland with her horn-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses, her Capezio pumps and her orange linen pedal pushers the natives look at her like she was a visitor from another planet. A visitor that had come to kill, skin and eat their children. For breakfast.

Despite many years of living in Scotland my mum still has that aspect of Otherness and I love her for it.  So for me when I see performers like Lady Gaga part of me wants to jump up and down like a kid and say, go for it! Piss the bastards off. You can live a life trying to be pretty, to be ordinary to be original or you can wear something that makes other people spill their tea over the morning paper. Be yourself, make an exhibition of yourself and be fabulous for as long as you can be – the Gaga way.

Guest Shoes by @muliercula – A Homage to my Red Shoes

One of the reasons that I love Twitter is that I have come across so many new writers and such a wealth of quality writing that I would never have discovered otherwise.

Muliercula is by her own description a stay-at-home parent, sometime English teacher, sporadic blogger and Twitterer. While I have not met her, I can vouch that she is extremely entertaining in the last two capacities. You can find her on Twitter here . Her latest blog post entitled “The Virgin Diary or What Tony Abbott Should Have Said to His Teenage Daughters” brings back all the stuff that I remembering being told at Catholic School about virginity, its value, its preciousness.  There are a few other Catholic readers out there who will probably agree with her.  If I could have sold it on eBay in those days to get it over and done with, I would have. If you are outside Australia you won’t know who Tony Abbott is. He is the leader of the Opposition in Australia, proud wearer of budgie smugglers and a self-proclaimed bedroom philosopher.

This morning, while I was wasting time wondering whether or not Tony Abbott had committed the crime of  obscene exposure under section 5 of the Summary Offences Act (NSW) Act 1988 by wearing Speedos, she has been busily writing about my favourite shoe colour.

If I could fill a wardrobe full of red shoes… my husband would probably move out.

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My two children (boys, 3 and 4) have recently discovered The Wizard of Oz. As I had never seen it in childhood, I have discovered it with them. They love it and have invented a hilarious game whereby they screech “I’m melting!” when they’re in the bath. I, on the other hand, have inevitably been pondering the subject of the red shoe.

I admit that I find it just a teeny bit gross when the film shows the Wicked Witch of the East’s skinny, dead legs sticking out from under Dorothy’s house. My kids seem unmoved, nor are they much interested in how Dorothy ends up in the footwear of someone she effectively murdered. What I notice is that on those bony, lifeless feet, the ruby slippers look odd and clunky; but on Dorothy’s feet, they are all glam and sparkle. Perhaps a shoe has to be worn on the right foot if it is to truly shine.

I am sure that many a PhD thesis has been written on the topic of the red shoe – so filled is it with symbolism and metaphor. A quick google for example reveals this interesting discussion thread where red shoes are described as representing “the active, energetic principle.” JJ Ghatt’s guest post on this blog is a case in point.

I am firmly of the opinion that all women should own a pair of red shoes. My own beloved pair has been a faithful and utterly reliable companion for over 10 years. I bought them at a time in my life when I was shoeloose and fancy free. I was sharing a flat with a friend and we’d throw parties at the drop of a hat. New Year? Let’s have a party. New job? Let’s have a party. Election? Let’s have a party (sadly, it didn’t help at all; John Howard kept winning). For me, my red shoes are definitely party shoes, although as you will see they would not be at all out of place in an office.

I don’t remember the purchase itself, but I can tell you they were marked down from $89.95 to $69.95 because I kept the box (aren’t you proud of me, Caveat Calcei?). I can even tell you the name of the model: Lisbet.  What a demure little name for such a handsome shoe. (By the way, I am not fond of shoe makers’ habit of giving shoes funny women’s Christian names. But that’s another subject.)

My red shoes are RMK patent leather Mary Janes. They are nothing like Caveat Calcei’s red patent leather Mary Jane pumps , which just goes to illustrate the boundless variety of the shoe species. Mine are a slightly metallic, deep cherry red. They have a wedge-shaped chunky heel which is as high as any I’ve dared to wear and yet are perfectly comfortable when worn dancing or even for walking home from the train station. They have never given me any blisters (or if they did at the start of the relationship, it is long forgiven and forgotten). Somehow, they seem to go with everything. It’s as though they were actually black. They have glammed up any number of ordinary outfits, even since the patent leather got a little scratched up. In short, I love them. I don’t even let the children play dress ups with them. Some things are just too special to share with your kids.

I have no idea why Caveat Calcei asked me to guest blog for her, as my own blog is covered in several inches of dust. Also, I have all but given up shopping since I started having children. But the very day I received her request, a strange coincidence happened. You might even call it a red letter day: I had just purchased my first new pair of shoes in years. I take it as a sign that the shoe gods are smiling on me again, at last, thanks to Caveat Calcei. Let the shoe shopping begin anew (and maybe the blogging too…).

Day 44 of the Shoe Challenge – Let my Open Toes Roam Free

Lipstik Black Wedge Heeled Sandals

Arguably, dress codes should not be necessary. Surely you should not have to tell people not to wear flip flops to the office (Day 22 of the Shoe Challenge – Havaianas to the Office?!) or go into shops barefoot in pyjamas?  Telling people to dress in clothes to go shopping in a supermarket is a bit like telling someone not to fart or pick their nose at the dinner table. There are certain things that personal dignity should prevent you from doing or wearing in public. Apparently, some individuals do need to be reminded of this from time to time.

For example, earlier this week,  a Tesco store in Wales was forced to put up this sign.

Tesco Bans Mums in Pyjamas http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/wales/8484116.stm

The sign says:

To avoid causing embarrassment to others we ask that our customers are appropriately dressed when visiting our store (footwear must be worn at all times and no nightwear is permitted) (The full story is reported atBBC News.)

Don’t get me wrong, I can be as big a slob and am as fond of dressing down around the house as the next sleep deprived mother. There have been times when I have opened the door to our postman in my knickers and a singlet with crunchy eyes and vertical bed hair. You won’t find me at the shops looking like that, though, probably because I don’t smoke these days.

Mother of two boys, Elaine Carmody, 24 of Cardiff  believes that there is a different dress code for smokers.  She told a Radio 5 reporter that the reason that she was dressed like this in Tesco’s:

Elaine Carmody & her PJs

was because  she “was only popping in  for a pack of fags.“

Had she been going in for a full shop, she says, she would have put some clothes on like her trackie bottoms. Ms Carmody believes that tracksuit bottoms are no different to pyjamas.

No doubt, dear lady, you will think that I am a complete snob but I disagree. You will never see me at the supermarket with a face full of make up but I do try to dress in a way that if,  you squint, might be classified as Dégagé-chic (ie clean jeans/t-shirts) as opposed to Schlepp-chic (PJs, slippers, anything with vomit or poo on on it, odd socks, tracksuit bottoms with baggy bums).  Elaine, the moment that you wear something in the outside world that you have slept in earlier is the moment that you have given up.

Here in Sydney, Australia I recently went into Coles in Brighton-Le-Sands where there were men walking about in Speedos with sun-burned shoulders and bare feet, straight off the beach. The beach is only about 500 yards away so although I would rather not have observed so much of their family tackle, it’s unfair to expect someone to get dressed to grab a quick bottle of water.

On the train during the day with the Minx, however, I often see chaps get on wearing Stubbies and no shirts. For the non-Australians among you Stubbies are basically hot pants for men. See below.

Short Shorts http://www.smh.com.au/photogallery/executive-style/style/short-shorts/20091117-ij51.html?selectedImage=3

When I first arrived in Australia and saw postmen wearing knee length black socks, black shiny leather shoes and navy blue short shorts  I thought that I had wandered into an uncensored episode of The Goodies TV show guest-starring various underdressed elderly Village People. Apparently Stubbies are even more popular in New Zealand as this clip shows. Topless men wearing Stubbies is my least favourite thing to look at on public transport.

That said, I would hate to see narky signs reminding people to put their shirts back on – that is fashion censorship. Strict dress codes are heinous breaches of natural justice as anyone who has every been turned away from a nightclub will tell you. People should be allowed to express themselves in the way that they dress providing that they aren’t breaking any laws.

In the past I have banged on at length about dress codes for lawyers (See Funny, you don’t look like a lawyer… Post October 25, 2009) It is sufficient to say that most law firms ban open toed shoes like the Lipstik brand wedged sandals that I wore today. Thank you, Sara D for upholding my constitutional right to let my toes roam free.

Day 43 of the Shoe Challenge – Meet Senga

Agnes is a girl’s name which is common in Scotland. Apparently the names Agnes is derived from the Latin form of the Greek name  Hagnes which means  ”chaste“. At some point in Scottish history, someone decided to create a new name  from the name Agnes via the magic of palindromes – Senga . During its transmogrification, or should I say palindromification, process the meaning changed entirely from “chaste” to “slim“.  This is a classic case of Scottish wishful thinking.

For those of you who are not Scottish, to whom should I compare a Senga? A Senga has come to be known as a female ned. In Glasgow, a ned is a streetwise urchin with the brains of a troll and the looks of a gnome. A Senga is the female equivalent.

If you are Australian it would be tempting for me  to compare a Senga to a female bogan. There are considerable similarlities. A female bogan, like a Senga, is defined not so much by her personality, looks or economic status as by her dress sense and mode of social interactions. Common bogan spotting/Senga spotting characteristics are as follows (taken from the Glasgow Survival Guide):

1.  Eloquent Swearing

In Scotland, the ability to swear in such a manner that the “F” word becomes punctuation is prized mostly highly. To this day I am likely to reply autonomously if someone tries to drive through a pedestrian light while I cross the road as follows:

Ya  fuckin’ shiter, away and fuck yourself you inconsiderate bastard c—

The word ‘bastard’ in Scotland is considered to be a minor insult like the word ‘bugger‘ in Australia. Swearing is, I  have always maintained,   a Scottish reflex. In your average Senga (or ned, the male version) the swearing is literally elevated to an art form.

For example a typically light conversation between two or more neds and Sengas at a party might unfold as follows:

Ned 1: How ye doin ba face?

Ned 2: Nae bad ye bastard. How’s yir maw?

Ned 1:  Dinnae give me onie crap. Ah’ve goat enough shite ae ma ane! An keep affae ma fuckin’ maw.

Ned 2: Aw right big man, how’s yir bird.

Ned 1: Fuckin’ brilliant by the way.

(In this conversation the “bird” is invariably a Senga.)

Apparently one can remember swear words up to four times more quickly than non-swear words particularly if one is Scottish.

2.  Clothes & Accessories

The shorter and tighter the skirt the better for a Senga. In Australia, the average bogan will aspire to an Ed Hardy tight tee shirt worn as a mini dress. In Scotland, the average Senga will wear a lot of bright gold jewellery that clanks when she moves and a Top Shop Kate Moss number two sizes too small.  The shoes of choice are whiter than white – either huge trainers, white stilettos or white sandals. On special occasions such as a visit to the Grand Ole Opry (Glasgow’s premier Country & Western Veune), the white tassled cowboy boots will replace the foregoing.

Don’t get me wrong folks, I am not looking down my nose at Sengas. Far from it. You will recall that I myself am from Paisley. For the formative years of my life I spoke through my nose and muttered swear words under my breath at teachers. I do, however, have an abiding hatred of white shoes (See Day 35 of the Shoe Challenge). So today, I had to gird up my loins, channel my inner Senga & go for it. Here are the results.

RMK White Sandals

Day 42 of the Shoe Challenge – Sydney, my shoes are committed to you but my heart is not

There are some delicious cool wafts of breeze puffing through the screen door to my left as I type this post. It is not helping to erase the memory of the soggy, gluggy humidity earlier today. At this time of year I start to think fond thoughts of the early June mornings with feet thrust into Ugg boots to escape the cold chill of our kitchen floor tiles.

My father and I had an uncomfortable, soggy gluggy conversation on Sunday night. One of those important life conversations. One of those what-are-you-going-to-do-with-yourself conversations. It was a conversation that covered the full range of uncomfortable subjects from C to H (Commitment to House Buying).

He is resolutely in favour of  house buying is my Dad. I am not. Every time I think about buying a house in Sydney I start to get a bit dizzy and sick.  My Dad believes that if my husband and I buy  a house here  it will help us put down roots and give us some financial security.  I think that if we buy a house here it will become a millstone around our necks. Not surprisingly, about halfway through the conversation I felt like I was playing Roger Federer at tennis with a concrete raquet.

After I got off the phone and ever since then I have been asking myself the same question:

Sydney – do I want to commit to you? Should we take our relationship to the next (home buying) level?

Before I decide this, Sydney, there are some things that we need to talk about first.  You really have to do something about the humidity.  I love heat. I love sunshine.  I hate humidity and so do my  shoes. There are exquisite shoes that I have hardly worn that have become unglued and unwearable. Shoe fabrics and elastics have disintegrated with alarming speed over the ten years that we have lived here. Not to mention that I can go to sleep with perfectly clear skin and wake up with a set of plukes* that resemble the Pyrenees.

In the summer, Sydney, I find it that there are things that I could rise above but for your humidity: getting into the office to find that my chair is 3 inches lower than it was the last time I sat on it; the fact that I can’t find my house keys; sitting behind someone on an un-air conditioned train who is both reading a newspaper and breathing …

The humidity really does get to me here – it is physically impossible consume enough water to replenish what is escaping through my pores; my sleep is constantly disturbed by the temperature going up and down like an faulty sauna on some summer nights. Last (but not least) I  have to keep my Tunnocks Teacakes in the fridge and cold marshmallow tastes funny.

Image at: funeralcakes.blogspot.com/ 2009_07_01_archive.htm

That said there are some  good things about Sydney – the beaches, the fresh produce, the diversity of culture, the fact that you never really need to wear winter clothes and the good friends that I have slowly managed to acquire here.

Also, I  do enjoy that I can wear fabric shoes like these silky Faith stiletto slingbacks more than once in Sydney without them buckling and being ruined in the rain.  There is rain here but I generally take my shoes off and splash about barefoot in it when that happens. I would never be able to do that in Glasgow.

So what do you say, Sydney – should we just be friends? See how it goes… maybe in a couple of months I will feel differently.

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* Pluke (also plook) Scottish vernacular for a spot, zit, boil or inflammation of the skin.

Day 41 of the Shoe Challenge – Who’s Afraid of the Prada Shoes?

What’s that? This blog post is late? Thank you so much for noticing.  It is not my fault though. Blame these shoes.

Sitting on the kitchen floor like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouth they look perfectly approachable don’t they? Appearances are deceptive though, these shoes intimidate me.

My first glimpse of them was while flicking through UK Vogue at the hairdressers.  The editorial that month focussed on sculptural heels and I stopped and drooled at these and was thereafter in love.  That year in Frasers’ January sales, my heart soared when I saw them sitting there – 99 pounds down from 200.  I bought them for love without thinking about what I would wear them with. That is not unusual for me. What was unusual is what happened next.

Usually when I buy a pair of shoes I have a little strange shoe ceremony which involves unwrapping the shoes, pulling out the wee bits of tissue paper (Prada has a gorgeous navy tissue), sniffing the leather  and then trying to matchmake the new shoes to an outfit.   Nothing I could find worked with these shoes – not a skirt, not a dress nor a pair of trousers.  For some bizarre reason the arched aspect to the heel and the Miro-esque colour combinations of patent leather which seem so classic and simple have thwarted me.  Maybe they are just too classic for me and as such I have come to slightly fear them.

However, in the Shoe Challenge fashion I have vowed to wear  and write about all of my shoes no matter how difficult they are, no matter how scary they are.   So I picked the easy, coward’s way out and wore them with skinny black tuxedo pants and an asymmetric black and white semi-transparent chiffon top.  I dressed in black and white like a waitress albeit one in a fancy restaurant. Safe. Traditional. Boring.

It was only when we came to take the pictures for this post that we discovered the best way to present these shoes is …

…tout seul.

Miss Boots – Shoe Story in Instalments – Part 4 of 4 – The Escape Plan

Miss Boots – Part IV

I love my parents, but they were way too strict.

The final straw came on New Years Eve 1999, when I had full intentions to party like it was, ahem, 1999.

Concerned about terrorism attacks and drunken debauchery in general, they informed me that I was spending New Years Eve with the family. I politely declined. This was meant to be MY year, and I was meant to herald in the New Year with the friends who would become my new “grown up” family.

I waved my parents goodbye and jumped into my car to drive off into the sunset, preferably with the sound system blaring.

But my car wouldn’t start.

My Dad had taken the plug leads out, and he had hidden them in his monstrous shed. He refused to tell me where they were. I was goddamned furious.

My Doc’s and I trudged to the home of every wannabe mechanic in town, hopeful that someone would have a spare set of plug leads. But Murray Bridge was deserted. Everyone had already left for their New Years Eve parties in Adelaide.

So I called the police to report my Dad for theft. But the police wouldn’t get involved, saying that it was a domestic dispute and unfortunately I was still under aged anyway.

I spent New Years Eve 1999 with my little brother. In a show of solidarity against my parents we didn’t eat family dinner, ordering burgers instead. With my Doc Martens up on the lounge room coffee table, I sat in sullen silence for 6 hours.

I never forgave my parents for their betrayal.

Early January 2000 my Doc’s and I left home to find a job in Adelaide.

I had been working on a master escape plan for many years:

Marriage.

Coming from such a strict religious family, it was the only choice I had.

I was 4yo when I met my childhood sweetheart and 14yo when we fell in love. We knew we’d get married on my 18^th birthday – and everyone knew that I’d wear my Doc Martens.

My 18^th crept closer and although I definitely didn’t want a “big stupid white wedding” I still wanted to look nice. One day I discovered “my” beautiful blue wedding dress. I knew it was the perfect dress, but as I looked at myself in the shop mirror, my beloved Doc’s just didn’t look right. They were hardly even black anymore. The soles were worn completely through.

It was rather symbolic. I needed new Doc Martens for the start of my new life.

It was so hard to choose new ones though. No matter which ones I tried on, no matter what size (7 or 8, Aussie or UK) none of them felt right. I finally chose size 7’s but they were never as comfortable as my old Doc Martens.

My husband and I both wore brand new Doc’s Martens on our wedding day. It was bittersweet to be wearing new shoes for the first time in 5 years. We made an excellent decision to have our wedding photos taken at the beach before the wedding (while my first ever “hair and makeup” was still fresh). Then we got hit by a wave and squelched around in wet Doc’s for the rest of the day. My husband was sock-less for our wedding ceremony, as they were too soaked to wear.

So began my new life. School was over, I now lived in the “Big Smoke” of Adelaide and my shiny new pair of Doc’s became my corporate work shoes. They looked quite dressy with a pant suit.

My new Doc’s took me to Big Day Out, trekking in Milford Sound, climbing waterfalls, walking through snow. We visited hot springs and checked out all of the Lord Of The Rings sites in New Zealand. A team as always, my new Doc’s and I climbed Ayers Rock (the walk back down the rock resulting in bruised blue toe nails), we drove ambulances and campervans, crashed schoolies week as a toolie, and went camping at Jervis Bay.

We lived in South Australia, Northern Territory, travelled to Queensland and New Zealand, and finally, shifted to New South Wales.

My escape plan had worked.

One fateful day late in 2005 my Doc Martens and I went to an outdoor music festival. I decided to “dress up”. I suddenly had an urge to feel (*gasp*) like a woman.

I wore a short tartan mini skirt and my Doc’s, with flesh coloured stockings AND fishnets to cover the skin on my legs.

I felt wonderful dancing rhythmically to that pounding music, with so many other people. Suddenly, on a natural high of adrenaline (and at the encouragement of my friends, since it was a 38 degree day) – I did the unthinkable.

I took a big swig of dutch courage and I removed both layers of my stockings.

There I was bare legged in public for the first time in a decade.

My friends still say this is one of their most favourite memories of me… with a short skirt, bare legs and my much loved Doc Martens… dancing… looking happy, beautiful and comfortable in my own skin for the very first time.

I danced for 12 hours straight that day. At the time I had no idea the other revellers were on drugs – I thought they all just loved dancing and were lucky enough to own very comfortable boots like me.

Impressed by my own stamina I decided to “stick it” to my High School PE teachers and finally right the wrongs of my uncoordinated unsporting youth.

The very next day Miss Boots signed up for a 5.6km corporate fun run (having never run more than a 100 metres in her life) and she bought herself a brand spanking new pair of boots.

But that’s another story.

Day 40 of the Shoe Challenge – Jumping Sharks in Shelly’s Square Toed Shoes

Those of you who have been with me since I started writing this blog will recall how the Shoe Challenge began. The blame/credit can squarely be laid on my boss who bet me that I could not wear a different pair of shoes to work every day and write about it.

We were discussing the Shoe challenge over a wee dram on Burns Night.

“What” someone asked “is going to happen when you run out of shoes to blog about?”  I came back with some quip about running out of storage space before I ran out of shoes.  There will come a time when I do run out of shoes to wear to work, although not for a wee while yet. The problem meantime is not so much running out of shoes but getting stale and boring you all.

What I have found challenging is to find new poses and places in which to photograph my shoes. These, for example, are a pair of Shellys’ high-heeled court shoes with square toes. (Shellys is a  funky mid-priced UK brand).  Perfectly decent shoes, but you have seen black high-heeled court shoes in this blog before, many times.

Tonight my good friend L. arrived at the door after disappearing off to Byron Bay without telling anyone first. For four days my husband and I had been beside ourselves with worry as we had been past her house, phoned and texted her repeatedly without any sign of life.  However, as she walked through the door, I was in absolutely no position to harangue her. The position that I was in is as shown below.

It not easy to tell someone off after they have caught you being photographed with your backside in the air.

My husband, bless him, is getting quite into photographing my shoes. What started off as me hanging my shoes off the lemon tree in the back garden has turned into a thrice weekly shoe modelling extravaganza. To bless him a second time, my husband is an artist and understands the importance of presentation.

So the pictures are getting saucier and the blog hit statistics are looking decidedly healthier but I am a wee bit concerned. It may be that in an attempt to keep this blog fresh dear Readers, that I am in danger of jumping the shark as the Not Drowning Mother has mentioned elsewhere .  One minute I am writing about shoes and the next thing posting pictures of myself with my arse skywards.

I am a great believer in following the ebbs and flows of life.  So the next someone asks me if I am going to give up blogging when out of shoes I am going to reply – Naaaaah! You aren’t getting rid of me that easily. I’ll start writing about handbags…

The Burning Questions

The Haggis

People, meet the Haggis.  The Haggis is a traditional Scottish dish. It is an acquired taste, a bit like say parsnip & Jerusalem Artichoke soup with gorgonzola.  Or oral sex.

On Monday night  just gone by my husband and I with the help of a  Scottish chap (called Scott) introduced a bunch of non-Scottish to the concept of the Burns Supper.

Pardon the puns but the Burn-ing questions of the evening were (in no particular order):

“Who was Robert Burns and why are we having a supper for him?” It has been said that the haggis is a timid mythical creaure that roams the Scottish Higlands. Robert Burns was born at or around the time of the first sighting of this strange and wonderful creature. According to Scottish legend, which has borne the test of time, the best way to capture a haggis alive is to:

(a)   read it the poetry of Robert Burns; or

(b) play the bagpipes to it until it falls over in delight and waves its little legs in the air.

You then have a short window of opportunity in which to leap upon it,  truss it up and chuck it into a pot of boiling water. Otherwise it goes off. Or bites you.

“Do you really eat Haggis?” Yes you do and we did. One or two people actually came back for seconds. James came back for thirds. It is particularly delicious when you pour a measure of neat malt whiskey over it beforehand. In fact, if you have a Burns Night without vast quantities of single (not blended) Scotch whisky neither the haggis nor your guests will be happy.

“How did you match your shoes to the Haggis?” I didn’t. I matched my shoes to my kilt which was predominantly red with a few green checks, as they usually are. The kilt label suggests that it is the Lili (Mac)Gaufrette tartan. Obviously to protect my anonymity, I won’t be divulging whether or not it is my clan tartan.

“Are you wearing your kilt according to customary Scottish military tradition?” That was for me to know and you to find out.  If you didn’t get the chance to do so you will just have to come along next year.

Miss Boots: A Shoe Story in Instalments – Part 3 of 4 – My Life Uniform

Miss Boots – Part III

Early in my first year of High School I came into possession of the first brand name item I had ever owned – a pair of brand spanking new Doc Martens.

On that very first fateful day, I took my Doc’s home and lovingly re-laced them in my own special unconventional style.

Miss Boots, a creature of habit, officially had a new uniform. From 1995 to 2005 I wore Doc Martens every single day.

The only items I ever changed over the next few years were the colour of my Doc laces, the colour of my hair, and my underwear.

My life-uniform consisted of Doc Martens, button fly boot leg jeans and a long sleeved top. I hated my skin so much that I never wore short sleeves for any reason. I prided myself on being able to survive 40 degree heat while still wearing my self appointed uniform.

The only time I mixed it up was with the substitution of a floor length black skirt (instead of jeans) on the days we went to church. You can’t imagine the uproar it caused when the church gossips realised I was wearing boots under my long skirt.

One day we had a sermon about how dangerous it is to follow the fashions of the “non-Christian world”.

“Did you know that some people of immoral lifestyles… homosexuals, practisers of witchcraft, and believers in the occult… these people may use their clothing style to indicate their beliefs? For example, I’ve been told that the group known as goths or punks… these people may wear black clothing and metallic jewellery along with black lace up ARMY boots. People affiliated with this violent, drug abusing group may even think that it is appropriate to wear clothing like this to CHURCH!

Oh, how our dear Lord must frown upon these disrespectful sinning souls!”

All 200 members of the congregation turned to look at me. I was only 15. And incidentally, I wasn’t a goth.

My boots caused me trouble with my school teachers too.

According to school policy, shorts and sneakers had to be worn to our compulsory Physical Education classes.

I explained to them that I could run just as fast in my Doc Martens, because the rubber and leather had in fact moulded perfectly to the shape of my feet. I respectfully advised that I refused to wear shorts. I assured the teachers that I definitely wouldn’t get heatstroke, and I wrote my own release form (including legalese I’m sure they didn’t understand) to indemnify them. I even asked my classmates to sign a petition to allow me to participate in PE, wearing my own clothes.

Despite my efforts, they refused to tolerate my non-conformity. This led to much time spent in detention… reading and philosophising with my fellow delinquents. It also led to a severe lack of sporting ability and hand eye coordination.

My Doc’s didn’t just cause me trouble at church and school. Sometimes the police would stop me on the side of the road and ask to check my Doc Martens for stolen items and drugs.

It seems that all types of authority are threatened by people that are a little different.

By the second year of High School my Doc Martens fitted me so perfectly that I didn’t need to tighten or loosen the laces. By the third year of High School I realised that the special braid in my laces was in fact “dreadlocked” and ergo impossible to undo. Not that I ever considered undoing it anyway.

Me and my Doc’s were inseparable. Throughout the whole of High School I had a second job as janitor for the local Primary School. Instead of physically scrubbing the little boy’s toilets and urinals by hand, I’d fill up buckets of detergent and boiling water and hurl it at the walls. My Doc’s protected me from water scalds and chemical burns.

With a vacuum cleaner and a mop, my Doc’s and I trekked miles and miles of school corridors. The hardest job was sweeping and mopping the indoor gym with its double basketball court.

Together, me and my Doc’s saved enough money to buy my first car (at age 14). Then we spent the next two years doing up the motor, repairing and respraying the body, and chroming every possible chromable surface. Heated pieces of metal from the angle grinder and welder would fly off and embed themselves in the leather of my Doc’s. Tiny specs of my much loved car forever melded with my much loved boots.

At 16 my Doc’s and I learned to drive (legally, on the road) and the day I turned 16-and-6-months we went for my P-plates and got them first go. Pwned!

Having a licence opened up a world of adventure and possibilities. And a little mischief.

I wagged school one hot summer day, and my car broke down on the freeway halfway to Adelaide. By the time my not-at-all-impressed Dad arrived to rescue me, my Doc’s had melted into the bitumen on the road. Little pieces of gravel were stuck in the soles forever.

They were good times. My Doc’s and I faithfully lined up for the midnight showings of the re-released Star Wars movies, we drove endless “maineys” up and down the main street of town and, on special occasions we drove up to the Big Smoke.

Around this same time another life altering event happened to me:

I discovered fake tan.

I started wearing short sleeved tops, much to the shock of every one in town.

For our Year 12 High School formal, my friends and I hired a limousine. The whole of Murray Bridge lined the street outside our Town Hall.

When I climbed out of our limousine wearing a strappy (but still floor length) dress, everyone went quiet and stared at me in speechless awe.

That night, even with both parental chaperones in tow, me & my Doc’s danced til way past midnight.