I look like I’ve been in an accident. I shaved my legs with a Bic razor which was almost certainly made in the same place as my new shoes, and now I have no skin on my shins and no clean trousers for work. Do I wear a skirt and risk frightening children? Or do I call in sick with a mystery illness?

 

My life is so complicated.

 

Well, as you can see, if that’s the most complicated thing in my life (and it’s been on my mind all night), then there is absolutely naff all going on.

I did go to Leeds at the weekend to stay with Hannah. Kel came too and we had the best time. I even stayed an extra night and had to brave the train with all the horrid little emos coming back from the festival. The smell on the train was my favourite part of all. Hooray for camping and falafel!

 

I need a pint. And I’m thinking, a life.

 

PAYDAY TOMMORROW.

 

Which makes me happy.

 

Laters.

xx 

 

It had something to do with its uncanny remeblence to something fun and tsty.  

Right….

 

Fag – check.

Coffee – check.

Sense of deep futility and resentment – check.

 

I appear to be back…..

 

Now, let’s see….

 

Cats being amusing… Bored at work… No money… Fit men… Sleeping… General annoyance… Being drunk… Exes… Having one’s feet amputated… Sharks… The name “Gordon”…

 

I think I’m going to talk about my new shoes.

Now my new shoes were bought for six pounds from asos.com, primarily for the wearing of at work. I have had many problems in the past with the hot feet/wet feet dilemma; especially so seeing as this summer seems to have brought to us by the letters W, E and T, and the colour grey. Should I wear my boots, and thus preserve the non-squelching nature of my pink toes? Or should I wear my flip flops and enjoy some “kick-em-off” luxury at work? Or how about my black ballet pumps which meet the requirements of both? Well now, it’s a valid question, and one would think that the pumps should be the obvious answer. That is until one realises that they consist of “leather” uppers and what appears to be cardboard pulp soles. The combination of gackie street wet and an office with a thermostat set somewhere just south of the Sun, ensures a deeply horrifying combination of black sludge and fresh parmesan.

Therefore, action was required on my part, and being a tight bastard, six quid sandals seemed an ideal compromise. Imagine, if you will that my new shoes are a nippy coupe standing proudly on the forecourt of a respected, if reasonable, car dealership. The seller may direct your attention to the shining black paintwork; or the ventilation shafts down each flank. They would surely point out the magnificent strong chassis, and the roomy interior.

What they may fail to inform you, however, is that the overall impression would be marred slightly were they to admit that each sleek black item was manufactured in – no! not Vietnam as indicated – but the bowels of the Inferno by none other than the Dark Lord himself.

The shoes, designed as subtle instruments of torture (for they will spend at least one hour slipped lovingly over each foot), will begin by alerting the walking foot to the fact that the ankle straps are slightly too tight. This; seemingly annoying at first, will increase in urgency until around two o’ clock in the working day when upon standing you will find that you can no longer function normally an sidle crabwise to the nearest available surface with the express intention of collapsing pathetically against it. Looking at your poor, crippled feet, you will notice at once that what was once an admittedly sturdy ankle now resembles something more like a large Christmas ham suffering from a chronic encounter with a garrotting wire. This, although horrendous, is sadly not the worst that can happen.

The next day, erroneously believing that the straps must have given overnight (fool! They are made from PVC! Are you mad?!) you may even give the vile curs another chance. After all, the shoes are pretty. The shoes received comments from your co-workers. The shoes are caaaaaalling you. This will be your second mistake. This time, rather than sneakily cutting off the circulation throughout the day, your new ham legs will be up and doing before you even get to the bus stop. Aha! You can take the straps and stuff them under the arch of your foot! Clever you! Take that you patent Pol Pots! You now have a rather snazzy (feeling smug, aren’t we?) pair of sandals and your lymph system is back in action, baby.

Oho. Ohoho.

The shoes, forged in the very fires responsible for Hitler, HIV and Picture Loans adverts, have one last act of revenge up their (proverbially speaking) sleeves. Just as you start to think that things will be alright until you can tie them in a bag and throw them in the canal, the shoes deploy their hidden razor blade edges and promptly begin to gently slice away at the flesh on your toes. Every step, every flex, every breath brings a new dimension of pain, and you get to three o’ clock fully expecting the walls to shutter down and Pinhead to float out and congratulate you on passing the initiation. You finally take the cursed things off and prepare to potter about the office like Paul McCartney on the cover of Abbey Road. People notice and comment. You don’t care. Someone warns you that there might be drawing pins or staples lying about. You tell them to bring it on: Nothing could be worse than having two mishapen, slashed, peeled and throbbing appendages where your precious feet used to be. It’s all good.

 

Until hometime comes around and you find that somehow the vicious little fucks have managed to shrink two sizes and develop an odd squeak which vibrates through the raw flesh with each, step.

 

Ladies and gentlemen; as I write this with my feet in a bowl, I give you the most evil shoes to ever walk this Earth:

 

 

Coming soon to an Iraqi bunker near you.

 

 

Laters.

Xx

 

 

PS: I feel better for sharing.

 

PPS: Don't be fooled. They really are sick. Sick, I tell you!