I cried every day for a month. Then only on wednesdays between half past twelve and twenty past one which was rather a waste of the exquisitely painful fee required by the upscale trick cyclist for doing little more than passing me an economy-sized box of own brand tissues. Honestly, at those kind of prices, the very least one could have expected was top of the range Kleenex. A succession of lace-edged lawn squares hand embroidered by beautiful Italian nuns would have been more commensurate with the bill. But not very commensurate with the unbeautiful mascara-smeared snottiness of my tears.
Anyway, after a not very long while I worked out that I could buy a new pair of Louboutins every month for exactly the same money as it was costing me to snivel incoherently and self-pityingly at the head shrinker. And it also occurred to me that if the thought of new shoes was infinitely cheering, then I was probably feeling rather better.
Anyway, after a not very long while I worked out that I could buy a new pair of Louboutins every month for exactly the same money as it was costing me to snivel incoherently and self-pityingly at the head shrinker. And it also occurred to me that if the thought of new shoes was infinitely cheering, then I was probably feeling rather better.
Shoes should always be comforting rather than comfortable. I'd like to think this is the secret etymology of the word 'consoled'. I have been placated by Prada, mollified by Manolos and, once, bright orange Bottega Veneta sandals were just the balm I craved. But in extremis only the mystical properties of Mr Louboutin's red soles will restore one's amour propre.
I have yet to buy the Louboutins. Do I unconsciously anticipate a time when my stiff upper lip will weaken along with my resolve, and my need for consolation will only be assuaged by a trip to Mount Street?
