So, I’m sitting at the pool, enjoying some much needed sun…in no way smug because the UK is currently covered in snow with below minus temperatures. I won’t lie, it feels amazing. Getting away somewhere hot in January is the best!
As a boy around Mrs T’s age wails in the background, she happily lies in her pram, legs up in the air, trying to catch her feet with her hands, fascinated, staring at them as I might gaze admiringly at my own wearing a pair of new glittery Louboutins. Well, that’s if I had any! I can’t holiday like I do AND buy expensive shoes.
Besides, despite my diminutive stature, I haven’t yet honed the ability to walk, or stand, in heels any higher than around two inches. I end up attempting to subtly move my feet up and out of said shoe to relieve the pressure on my foot – which feels as though someone has hammered several large nails into its sole – all the time trying to maintain a civil conversation as well as my balance. It usually ends with me shrinking down to my acquaintance’s waist as I put one foot fully on the ground- more often than not leading to snarky comments like “How small ARE you?” But the relief is so tremendous I abandon all attempts at sophistication, chuck them off, and eventually take to the dancefloor until I’m told off by some security guard coz there might be glass… Pah! GLASS would be less painful.
So there is Mrs T -staring at her feet – then suddenly one is in her mouth -her elbow helping guide it in, grinning, surely knowing she is doing something special. I feel so proud. She has completely found her feet and is chomping on her toes. At this stage, though, like my imaginary Louboutins, her feet are far more fun to look at – or even taste – than try to walk in.
Putting her foot in it