16 hours in London in 3” heels

I don’t wear heels. I am a trainer girl through and through. I am more fluid in a hefty pair of wellies than I am in any shoe of the raised variety. I will occasionally don a pair of boots if the mood takes me, but two of the three pairs I own are very much ‘without heel’.

The other pair are Nine West, grey leather and the most beautiful footwear I have ever worn. They are the most expensive item of clothing I have ever owned (purchased in a terrifying abuse of my credit card that I never knew I was capable of in a heart palpitating shopping trip that Yorkshire Lass took me on during a period of severe grumpiness on my part and revision-distraction on hers, coaxing me into the doors of Top Shop on Oxford Street, unaware that I would emerge £270 poorer but a great deal happier).

Of late, I have been attempting to fulfil my delusions of womanliness and indulging in feminine wiles by purchasing a number of dresses (I haven’t yet gained the courage to replace my depleting make-up, having dismissed a replacement No.7 lipstick today after seeing a horrendous price tag of £9, but one step at a time) and generally trying to look a little bit like a lady and less like a lesbian dog walker (that now is reserved purely for dog-walking and house-bound times). I’d say I’m hitting somewhere vaguely near the mark about 6.7% out of ten (gym visits not included; I still have yet to replace my PE gear with clothes that have been specially bought for such occasions, rather than ones that have been relegated to exercise wear from being too poorly to be used in polite company).

So I thought, for a change, instead of wearing my leaking, muddy, and, lets be honest, past it trainers, I thought I’d dabble in what it really was like to be a lady in London (or as near to it as I was ever going to achieve, when my perspiration issue, lack of make-up application skills and bulky ‘I’ve got a laptop in here!’ backpack were heavily in place and those issues are certainly not going anywhere).

So, ignoring the fact that the bottoms of my jeans were so butchered I actually had to cut off a string of denim trailing from the bottom of one of them (the other was long gone), I left Leeds feeling that I’d scrubbed up pretty well really.

It didn’t really start to go wrong until late Monday night, when I arrived at my tube destination and, even with an alcohol haze gently comforting me, the pain was starting to creep through, little by little. Luckily my friend’s boyfriend arrived like a knight in shining armour and escorted me home, balanced precariously on the back of his push bike hurtling around the back streets of Kensington.

Tuesday morning, nervously, I pulled on my boots once again. If the night before is bad, the morning after really ensures any pain that was starting to be visible even through the most alcoholic of blankets is endured ten-fold to make up for it.

I learnt several things yesterday on what it is like to be a lady in London (apart from the disturbing realisation I have been walking to a fashion that has meant my left heel has worn down so considerably on the inside that I am surprised I haven’t started walking around in circles and I am now going to have to do something I have never even considered before let alone had the need to attempt: a re-heel).

For anyone who is thinking of attempting such madness in The Big Smoke for any prolonged period of time and is determined to conquer public transport or any other manner of walking/standing/swaying activities, here are my findings:

- Being tall(er) on the tube reduces claustrophobia considerably as you are able to see beyond sweat drenched armpits and copies of the Metro;
- It is impossible to go anywhere at more than 2 miles an hour so you need to leave 30 minutes earlier to get to your destination on time;
- Tube and train station floors are slippery and caution must be taken at all times (if in doubt, best avoid altogether and get a taxi);
- My boots are the noisiest shoes ever to be worn by anyone, ever;
- Heels, still, despite all my desperate attempts to be ladylike, make me walk like a transvestite;
- You can relieve the pain a little by hanging your heels off the back of an escalator step but beware when you get to the top you need to be in a situation to whip them up quickly so you don’t a. fall over or b. get trapped and then fall over;
- Legs can sweat, apparently (NB: this only applies to boot-wearing as far as I am aware, but better not be too hasty in that assumption);
- You have a lot further to fall;
- Stupidly tiny heels can, and will, get stuck in any nook, cranny and crevice that they come across (and will go out of their way to investigate other accident-inducing, humiliating ordeals;
- If you want to wear 3” heels in London, stay inside, with your feet up and make people bring you wine.