the heel factor

It wasn't impulse shopping, not in the least. I knew when I got into London ― en route to cold-as-numbskulls New England, from holiday (I love this word) ― I'd need a pair of heels. (I'd checked my luggage all the way through. Pathetic excuse.)

Besides, my stay wouldn't have been half as thrilling, myself, half as sexy, if I hadn't made the mad dash to Harrods that evening; barely giving myself a measly hour to find a worthy pair of pumps (and anything else that caught my eye). I must have encircled the shoe dept. at least three times, but I kept coming back to 'it'. It was as if there was some gravitational force drawing me back... to this pair of shoes.
New season too.
Way to thwart my non-resolution for the new year.

When I accepted that I wouldn't be leaving the store ― which happened to be closing in ummm... twelve-fifteen minutes ― without the lovelies, the world became a much more pleasing space.

(Really, it was the black faceted fake haematites ― or whatever those stones are ― on the heels that kept whispering my name oh so seductively. I told you I was a magpie in my former life.) I've tried to look for them on the Dior webbie, but they aren't there. There is a silver pair with plain heels, but that's no even close to what I paid for my encrusted heels. All the better, notwithstading. My brain, being the clever center that it is, has helped me remove the memory of the price I'd paid for it, so I don't have to dwell on it. Such brilliance. I just know I must subsist on air and ramen noodles for the next few weeks, I think.

I may have found a mini-dress/top (call it what you want) whose sleeves I may have chopped off; but these are the things we must do for style. I'm going to incorporate the sequined portions of the chopped sleeves (ha!), which really is about six inches long! and possibly ten inches wide per sleeve into a fab new black mini that my darling tailor will sew!!


Big kisses with sugar atop.