Not dressed up and nowhere to go
London — I’m in the bathroom. On my feet are a pair of sparkly, silver Balenciaga heels I last wore to a gala dinner in Paris, back in February, about a week before the world shut down. They are, to quote Germaine Greer’s most memorable outrage, “f***-me shoes” of the most aggressive order.
The toe narrows to a devastating knifepoint that weaponises the foot by several inches, the back of the shoe is flattened to a square, the heels ascend to 95mm. Swathed in glittery metallic Lurex, they are Cinderella slippers for the #metoo generation, poised to walk across the ballroom and lead Prince Charming on a merry dance.