it's the Jimmy Choos

After a few nights of this, I became aggrieved. What sadist first dreamt up heels, and how come men got away with not wearing them? Who decided that women teetering about on 5in stilts was sexy, while on a man it wasn't? Well, OK - it was probably all of us. But still it is interesting - how, for so many men, shoes are just shoes, while for women, their choice of shoes can end up defining them. For me, it's the Jimmy Choos (my man-pleasing side that likes to be mistaken for Good in Bed) warring against my other favourite footwear - a truly hideous pair of clumpy sexless boots that every man I meet begs to be allowed to incinerate, and I keep wearing as some kind of pointless feminist rebellion. In this way, is my duality, the schizoid essence of myself, reflected in my footwear? Am I overdone tranny and, as one wag put it, 'failed lesbian', and nothing in between? Or do I just need to buy some new boots?
Then something happened. At Christmas I opened a box and there they are - a pair of Jimmy Choos, painfully high (more than 5in), black, with a tiny strap. We stared at them as if the baby Jesus himself had appeared before us in shoe form. Solemnly, I put them on, stood, wobbled, and fell over.