I love my new shoes, I think to myself as I gaze all of the five-feet-five down to my toes. Like a sign that would stop traffic the scarlet sole flashes at me from under my arch. A little golden ‘39’ catches the light and winks at me knowingly. At last I have license to act my age and my shoe size. Oh, how perfect they are. Three and a half inches of re-enforced, rubber tipped, steel pin draped in black patent shines elegantly, reflecting a perfect shape of light like a pop art cigarette holder. A low bridge dips to expose the cleavage of each toe, even the little one, persuading me that my feet are exquisite. Even sitting down they pinch at me, reminding me to admire them. The pressure of the point squeezes just enough to make the veins bulge a little over the bones that extend up to my ankle and I’m convinced that I’m this skinny all over. I enjoy that L’Oreal feeling for a moment, like I’m worth it. Oh, kettle’s boiled. I wobble to the box by the mirror, holding the wall, and step down from my pedestals. Back into their crisp, tissue paper they go, tucked in for the night. Rolling down the legs of my onesie I wish I had shaved my legs afterall and promise myself to paint my toes. Maybe tomorrow. I reach for my fluffies, pour a cuppa, grab the biscuits and flop on the sofa. It’s nearly time for Strictly. I love my new shoes.