My how we’ve grown!

Clearly Lady Moss has a thing for shoes. Especially high ones.

I’m very fussy when it comes to fashions for my feet and have exacting standards that they must live up to before I bring them home to throw on the pile. All-over leather, inside, outside, soles and they need to smell of it, that’s how I judge quality. Thick, juicy leather mmmm. Made in Italy, Spain or Brazil are favourites, I like to know my babies are familiar with a good party before they leave their homeland. A mama I may be but the Can-Can can! And will, given half the chance or half a lychee martini, whichever comes first.

Balance is first and foremost, a lesson learnt many mistake purchases ago. Guilty of buying before really trying, I can now tell in an instant if I will be the last girl standing in heels after the races. I still give them a good run through their paces in the shop, much to the annoyance of the sales girls until they realise that if the shoe fits I’ll stack ‘em up and buy two pairs. Much to Mossy’s clear and constant anguish.

All was fine and dandy in my closet until The King came along and just like The Grinch, my heart grew half a size. As did my feet. When you spend as much time as I do ensuring a perfect fit this means trouble. In the past I’ve been known to ignore a few sizes here or there in the quest for a bargain, but always in favour of a smaller size. I once bought a pair of Manolos in a 36  for $150. Already a small make, I poured my size 38 feet into those baby blue suede slingbacks, clenching my toes up in an effort to force them right to the point. No toe cleavage there.

Things came to a heel at the ballet. I was wearing my fall-back favourites, tan stilettos gifted from a very talented shoe designer friend with perfect balance. I have galloped down flights of stairs to the ferry in them. Can’t find a cab on NYE? Not a worry in these babies. Not once have they let me down. Evidently lured into a false sense of security until last week when they cut my feet to ribbons. Shredded them like lettuce for a chicken burger.

So bad, that Mossy forced me to take them off. Me. Lady Moss.

For the first time in living memory I obeyed. My prince carried the offending strips of torturous leather while I shuffled along in his soft as butter brown leather loafers. Wearing my Leona Edmiston aqua frock with just the right amount of frou for the ballet. Quite a sight the pair of us at the cab stand may I just say. But that’s love.

Sadly I know this is a permanent situation and a solution must be found. So it stands, that until my shoe closet is replenished you may spy a little surprise hidden under the odd park bench in Bayswater, buried beneath a fig tree in the Botanical Gardens or behind a flower box in Martin Place. On an eve out in our fair city Lady Moss can be seen stashing a pair of humble thongs where you least expect them just in case. Size 8 and in good as used condition. If you do stumble across them and are in dire need, do borrow and ease your suffering with our blessing. We all need a visit from the shoe fairy once in awhile.    



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