CREATIVE Rhian EdwardsNWR Issue 100
My Mary Jane
...all foot fetishism begins with that early calibration by the Clarks woman: the placing of the socked foot gently on the gauge and the coasting of the wooden marker down through the ages until it hits the big toe. And as the foot size creeps incrementally up the ruler, another rite of passage is born, another playground pissing contest to be had.
My small size nine established, I began to prowl the shelves: the silver ballet pump, the austere school shoe, the frog-faced Wellie, the Barbie-pink Sandal, the Velcro-strapped Dap and the illustrious purple Jelly Shoe. And then there she was, gleaming like an oil spill of crimson nail varnish, a T- Bar buckle and a sole to die for. My Peggy Sue, my Mary Jane, the kind of shoe that could make you kill a man. I told the Clarks lady to chop-chop and fetch me the shoe’s sidekick. These ruby slippers may not click me back to Kansas but by God they could harbour my treads into acceptable infantile society...
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