Nov 18, 2011


I walk differently in nice shoes. They instil me with a certain knowing pride as I walk the street. The thing about nice shoes is they have a way of finishing off the line of your leg, of refining your stride and making each step a careful, considered one. Watch the crack, tip-toe around the gum, jump the puddle and steer clear of suspiciously dirty pavement... I even keep them under my seat on the train so not to be trodden on or overstep my gait to avoid meeting something less than clean. 

Excessive? Possibly. Obsessive? Maybe. But the thought of harm coming to them burns my face red, too awful to imagine. Almost every time I wear my nice shoes I profess my love for them. Unhealthy? Yes, probably. But then I'm not complaining. I like our arrangement. 

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