High heels. In themselves, beautiful objects of desire... (like the tartan stillettos I saw the other day, that I shall never wear, so I shan't buy them.... and it makes me sad), but ON people, they are tools of torture and humiliation. I'm quite lucky in Portugal that I'm five foot six and a tiny bit, as it makes me quite tall. I'm the shortest member of my British family, but one of the tallest within my adopted Portuguese family. This is a good reason not to wear high heels... 'im indoors and I are exactly the same height (actually, I AM a millimeter taller, but we're not quibbling) and I can't bear it when I do wear heels and end up towering over him... I feel like a lady wrestler or one of Tom Cruise's wives. I do like the look of them, once in a while, on my own feet but I know that within ten minutes I will be in such excruciating pain that I would happily saw off my legs. Nor can I do the walking thing. Heels make me walk like a duck. I can't put my weight on the heels because they feel like they would shatter and to walk on the toes makes me look like a middle aged woman, drunk at a wedding, scampering around being "naughty", so i have to do the elephant whole foot down padding step which makes me look like I have a neurological disorder, possibly from eating cows in the nineties. I'm only too delighted that many millions of women around the place do wear high heels, such as these two below, because for most of them high heels and their tottering do makes them look rather like very tall silly birds (bird in the avian sense, not the ingerlish "where's my bird?" sense) so I MAY look better in their silly shadows... in my sensible flat shoes that don't hurt, that don't make me walk like a duck. I watch in amazement as supposedly intelligent people walk up and down the calçada'd streets of Lisbon without ripping their stillettos off and throwing them into the road and sighing with relief.  The one on the right was at the carboot the other day... a tall, pretty, elegant girl wearing solid wood six inch wedges on a rocky grounded carpark and a hideous top that looked like she'd slipped herself into an enormous rotting gourd. ... and no, she couldn't walk a step without looking a complete twit. So I suppose all I am saying is if I it didn't hurt like hell and I could walk gracefully in them, I would wear heels. Sometimes. But it does and I can't, so I don't... and I can just sit back and enjoy, painfree, the silly duckwomen and their very silly shoes.
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