Now that my muffin top has upgraded itself to a deluxe 9 inch Christmas cake with marzipan and lumpy royal icing, I've decided to focus my efforts on shoes. My feet have recently shrunk half a size and so I've decided to reward them with the love and attention they deserve.
This has opened a whole new world to me. Where have shoes been all my life? Take a look at these beauties. I love them.
Big Owl* is less sure and has commented that they're different to my usual choice. Exactly. That is the point. I'm having small mid-life crisis in shoe form, which will pass when I fall over again at work and take out a row of desk pod partitions.
It's happened before - the partitions fell like dominoes and, as I picked myself up and dusted off my wide legged trousers (which were responsible for the whole thing - heels get caught in my wide legged trousers), no-one said a word. A room full of men and no-one asked if I was O.K. Admittedly, there were all software developers. I think that they felt it was bad enough that they had to share their working day with a woman, but when she had the bad taste to draw attention to herself, the only possible reaction was for them to huddle closer to their monitors and code faster.
Anyway, I've discovered that high heeled play shoes pay no attention to buttons that refuse to do up over expanding chests. They ignore bingo wings, and forgive wobbling thighs. They preach body tolerance and size equality. What a relief to have found them. Now I just need to turn my lumbering lurch when wearing them into a sexy catwalk-model strut. Easy peasy.
I feel another visit to the orthopaedic surgeon coming on.
*Big Owl: my husband, formerly known as Big Al but renamed by my sister's five year old son. He is indeed a Wise Old Owl but shows me far more patience that his namesake did for Pooh.