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I have no great talent for walking in high heels. In fact, it’s fair to say that whenever I wear them I resemble a novice stilt walker with an ear infection.

And then I discovered that Doc Marten’s did heels. Yes, Doc Martens heels. Heels so comfortable I can walk, run and pogo dance in them for hours. Thanks to these miraculous heels, I was no longer the only girl at the ball wearing “comfortable shoes”. I was a lay-dee.

And so it was only natural that I would wear my heels to a garden party we’d been invited to. What I didn’t realise at the time of choosing my footwear was that the “garden” referred to in the term “garden party” was on the side of a mountain.

The party didn’t start well for me and my feet. My husband had dropped us off at the gate of the house and driven further up the mountain to park.

When he arrived a few minutes later on foot, he exclaimed “Oh shit! I forgot the present!”

“So when I rang you and asked you to bring the sunscreen ‘as well’ what did you think the ‘as well’ referred to??” I grumbled.

“Um… ‘as well as my good self’?” my husband ventured.

Somehow, I ended up trekking back up to the car to get the present. On a loose gravel track. In my heels. It was like I’d been sent to High Heels Boot Camp. And yes, it was a pity I wasn’t wearing these Dr Marten high heeled boots because that would have made that metaphor very tidy. Very tidy indeed.

Anyway, this set the tone for the rest of the party – an otherwise beautiful event – where I endlessly hiked up and down steep pathways with the kids, who had been drinking from a never ending fountain of soft drinks and needed to do toilet trip after toilet trip in the house at the bottom of the mountain. Moreover, I had to carry Tiddles McGee up and down the mountain, because he’d conveniently fallen into a pond in the first five minutes of the party and spent the rest of the time barefoot and rockin’ a toga fashioned from a bath towel. Which was the kind of thing I’d normally expect my husband to do, quite frankly.

Needless to say, by the end of the afternoon, my feet were knackered. I had adopted the gait of a novice stilt walker with an ear infection who’d gotten rat-arsed drunk while taking antibiotics for said ear infection. Which is always a good look at an afternoon garden party.

And of course, I had another party to go to – without any chance to go home and change my shoes. When my husband dropped me off in town, I immediately set off to buy some band-aids. Eight blocks later, I realised this was doing far more damage than good because the party was in a restaurant and all I was going to be doing was sitting and drinking and eating and chatting and the only walking I’d have to do was to the toilets, which ended up being conveniently and mercifully situated four steps away. I say “mercifully” here not just because of my feet, but also the fact that later in the evening I managed to emerge from the toilets with my bodice sash tucked into my knickers, thus parting the front of my dress like a pair of goddamn curtains. Which is always a good look at a fancy restaurant.

And actually, now I think about it, it’s something I should have done much earlier in the day to take my mind off my aching feet. There’s nothing like the pain of embarrassment to negate the pain of a hard-earnt blister.

In fact, now that I think about it further, I should have just thrown myself in the pond after Tiddles and made my husband and a team of his friends carry me in my towel-toga up and down the mountain in a sedan chair. Or, indeed, skipped the pond all together and demanded the sedan chair anyway.

And I pride myself on being an Ideas Person. Sheesh.

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