I am, by all accounts, short. I come up to most men’s armpits. What makes matters worse is the fact my best friends are all 5’7” and above. I worked out early on that a low centre of gravity and nosebleed-inducing heels would be a necessity if I ever wanted to be noticed when in their company, without falling face first. A few years of tottering around in cheap peep-toes and the like, increasing in height as fashion dictated, soon followed this revelation. But even I wasn’t prepared for the unleashing of six inchers with hidden platforms we’re supposed to pose, dance and, God forbid, walk in. Ever the optimist, I gave them a go and inevitably fell head-over-heels on several occasions. I’ve now accumulated the nick-name ‘Bambi On Ice’. Still, God loves a trier.
Then Camilla Skovgaard entered my radar. Her elegant sandals and ankle boots look more like architecture than something purely to cover your feet. Her designs are made tough and brutal by their tyre-tread half inch sole (similar to a row of Alan Carr’s teeth). They seem almost too good to be true. Are they made for wearing? Are they even shoes? Should they be put on a mantle? All viable questions I pondered while viewing pairs online.
Until I saw them for real in Dover Street Market. My heart raced. My hands went clammy. I could hear myself chanting “Ohmigod! Ohmigod! Ohmigod!” Who knows how long I’d whispering my mantra for. I didn’t care: all logic had gone straight out the third floor window. I just knew I needed them. A peep-toe ankle boot was seductively purring “buy me and we’ll walk all over your leggy companions together”.
Short of leaving the store with a Skovgaard-shaped pregnancy belly that day, I’ll have to wait to save up for the shoe I was born for – neigh – the shoe that was made for me. One day we will unite, walk into a room and claim: “We’ve grabbed your attention and look like a fashion rockstar, but make fun of our artistic panache and we’ll kick your ass”. And by God we will. Even if I fall over doing so.
Bow to the all-powerful shoe:
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