Bordering on Fetish.

“Someone give me an epidural”, I said through gritted teeth as I squeezed my feet into my brand new, red patent, five inch birthday shoes.
“Hell-oh”, said Hubby by way of a not particularly helpful reply, “Ding-dong! Have we got a few minutes?”
“For God’s sake this is neither the time nor the place”, I snapped, my thoughts concentrated into walking properly and not wanton abandon as these shoes might otherwise suggest.
“Spoil sport”, said Hubby, still hugging me rather too amorously, “Well you look a million dollars and it really does seem a shame not to exploit the association with footwear like this, I mean after all aren’t they known as..”
“Dad, leave it out”, interrupted our son, shuddering, “We know exactly what you mean. Please, the pair of you, either get a room or give it a rest.”
I hobbled over to the fireplace and looking in the mirror above it, applied a slick of scarlet lipstick.
“You’re pushing it Alice”, added Hubby, running after me and burying his head in my neck.
“Look”, I said, writhing out of his grip, “You’ve got to take the girls back to school now. Don’t forget they need a teddy, a mug and your cheque book.” Hubby looked blank. “It’s book week. Remember? They’ll want to buy a book once they’ve had their stories read to them”.
Hubby looked most downcast as he piled the girls into the car.
“Don’t look so chagrined”, I said to him as he came back for one last kiss.
“Please Alice, don’t use that word. That’s just teasing me”. Slapping him playfully, I waved him goodbye as they all called Happy Birthday from the car. I looked at my watch, Mags and the girls would be here any second, I belted up my scarlet mac.
“I’m off in a minute”, I called to the rest of my children.
“ ‘Kay mum”, the thirteen year old called back, “Have fun”. Then, just as I reached for my handbag, my mobile phone trilled from its nether reaches.
“Hi Mags”, I said, “Where are you?”
“Just getting on the ferry. Where are you?” she asked.
“What do you mean you’re getting on the ferry? I’m at home on my own, waiting for you guys.”
“Well we were running late, so we thought we’d better get a move on. Didn’t want the birthday girl to be stood up. You’d better run Alice”.
Run? Was she having a laugh? I could barely bloody walk. No-one could give me a lift either; Dad was out and Hubby had gone to do his bit for the PTA. Gingerly I stepped out and made my way down the road. Think Geisha. That is how fast I was walking. Teetering, tiny little steps. Each one an agony of such intensity that my feet were having their own out of body experience. I clutched the veterinary surgery for support and then, like some transvestite Marcel Marceau, grasped my way along the outside of the Barber’s shop. Suddenly I was out of essential architecture and on my own. Somehow or other I had to navigate myself across a road, past a couple of pubs and then it was all downhill to the ferry. By this point I would have quite happily bitten my own toes off, but it would have taken too long and at this juncture, time was of the essence. Unfortunately, as I teetered around the corner, the ferry had sailed and was a third of the way across the Tamar.
I let out an involuntary little yelp of disappointment and wondered why such a thing could happen on my birthday. But He heard me. Whether it was a one off birthday treat or whether it was a miracle to show His omnipotence and unconditional love for me I’m not too sure, but for the first time in 26 years of catching the blasted ferry, it reversed!
Due to the severe pain I was experiencing I initially thought I was hallucinating but as it docked and the ramp came down like the spaceship in E.T, I realised it was actually for real. “I’ve got to just go for it”, I said out loud and biting my lip hard, I hobbled for all I was worth and, as I walked up the ramp there was a ripple of applause as I finally made it.
I found Mags and co by way of a helium balloon hovering above them, a rather discouraging slogan of, ‘Don’t bother love. I’m too old for you.’ printed on it. They were oblivious not only to me but to my agonising exertions.
“Hmm, mm”, I coughed. They all looked up: “Happy Birthday Alice” they cried and Mags jumped up, hugged me and handed over a gift bag and the balloon.
“Just let me sit down”, I begged, “It’s my feet, well my toes to be precise”.
They all marvelled at the footwear, “Bordering on fetish I’d say”, said Mags.
“How do these celebrities do it?” I asked them, wincing as one shoe was off and my toes were being rubbed back to life by another friend.
“Ah but they are only meant for the bedroom, the red carpet and maybe glossy editorials”, said Mags knowingly, “You never see any celebs actually move in them do you? They just stand and pout. Now we know why they are pouting.”
I had tried so hard to look stylish and sophisticated but let me tell you, the sight of a six foot woman in a scarlet mac clutching a conspicuous balloon, being given a Queen’s Carry by four other women off the Torpoint Ferry on a Tuesday night, is far from a pretty sight. The return spectacle, hours after so many Mojitas had been imbibed that the cocktail bar had run out of mint, was, I have been reliably informed by too many eyewitnesses, “Ugly”.