I don’t buy expensive shoes, as a rule - well, I don’t buy expensive anything, on account of not really having any money - but after an adolescence of £20 high heels and disposable flats, I’ve stepped up in the world. It began with a pair of sparkly golden Kurt Geiger heels, a couple of years ago: the first shoes I’d purchased outside of New Look, and apparently woven of fairy gossamer.
I’ve got angrier since then.
These Sam Edelman heels are $200 online, but while you can take the girl out of Manchester, you can’t take the Manchester out of the girl. It took weeks of NSA-level internet monitoring, but I got them on Ebay for £25. Moment of silence for my now-lost disposable income, everybody.
These shoes have weight. They have presence. They are five fuckin’ inches high, and they will punch holes in your opaque tights. They are not inexpertly glued together on a production line: they are whole and bold and absolute.
'I could kill a man with these shoes,’ I coo dreamily, pulling them from their nest of tissue paper.
My mother side-eyes me. She is probably waiting for me to add, 'but I won’t’, but I can’t make any promises.