My son Sal was slow to walk, he was almost two when in the space of a day he went from crawling to the front door with me in the morning as I left for walk and running full speed at me as I arrived back that evening. As ingrained in us, off we trotted to the children's shoe shop to have his feet measured and to purchase his first pair of shoes.
I was on the tube the other day, and since I find the proximity of my face to the faces of strangers a rather undesirable experience, I had my gaze directed firmly to the floor. It was then that I observed a pair of shoes that I found both alarmingly ugly, and, quite frankly, unsettling. These shoes, I believe, go by the name of 'winkle pickers'.
I've sometimes toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo, but there's something about the permanency and probably the pain that stops me entering through those parlour doors. However, I recently came across Oliver Sweeney offering the option of getting a tattoo on their shoes, and this instantly seemed like a much more painless option.
She is now gracing front covers, has a child whose name is inspired by the points on a compass and is a product created and exploited by her own mother. I remember being so terrified introducing my first boyfriend to my parents, I am unsure when the (alleged) brokering of a deal regarding your daughter's sex tape became the norm.