Friday, March 13, 2009
the diary of the most incredible red shoes evah
Got a bit swanked up last night, showed some cleavage. Because who knows how long tit’ll last – (Geddit? tit’ll.)
The main point of reference here, however, are my spanking new red heels.
Look, I’ve been a [red] heel fanatic my whole adult life, but because I wear them so much, I go through red heels like Hugh Hefner goes through platinum blondes.
I have at least five pairs of obsolete red stilettos sitting there, dolefully, at the back of my cupboard.
I have to get a new pair every season. For either they’ve been wedged into too many lawns, or like in the past, I’ve slept in them. So buying red heels for me is like buying face cream: it’s a regular item amongst my fixed expenses, as much as Clarins Day Cream SPF 15 is.
Look at these beauts though. They are a work of art frankly, and my mate who works at a gallery said so as well.
Red heels make me feel like a walking Ferrari. The world is mine.
Which is why I’ve done a Friday Photo Diary of where they went last night.
Exhibit A: As seen here with dinner. Woolies Raspberries.
[And wire shoe, part of house décor, because it, too, is an objet d’arte and deserves its own recognition.]
Exhibit B: Next to a chilled glass of end-of-summer rosé. The nectar that makes these babies dance.
Exhibit C: On my stairs, leading out of my house. They’re off to socialise and be the frou frou artifacts of hubris they are.
Exhibit D: On the accelerator of my car. Ready to pump the gas through to Parkhurst.
Exhibit E: Under the table at Espresso’s. They belong on the table, but I’m superstitious.
Exhibit F: Next to Poen’s shoes. Making friends.
Exhibit G: Next to the shoes of the Espresso waiter’s (who thinks I’m stalking him. Ref earlier post. I’m not – again, not into kids - but now he really thinks I am. Good thing these shoes speak for themselves).
Exhibit H: Next to A’s shoes. Which are also very nice, even if it kills me to say it. On turning circle whilst window shopping with wine.
Exhibit G: On my Moulin Rouge Brothel-For-One; Boudoir-Of-Dreams linen. Did take them off before finally giggling myself to sleep.
PS: Rage, about R320. I think. [Rage against the machine, if you will]
PPS: And yes, they are coming to Europe with me. In case you even sort of wondered.
PPPS: I’m finally learning German. Like proper. No fannying about. I’m doing modules and online tests. I plan to know sentences I can actually string together that don't involve words like 'boson' and 'fotze'. Mein gott it’s wonderschon.
PPPPPS: South African music and Timothy Moloi, not to mention an awesome One Republic cover.