In a irrational fit of longing and befuddled by the animal print, the velvety touch of pony skin, the artfully dishevelled leather bow, the delicate curves of the shoe which make the wearer feel simultaneously like a ballet dancer with tiny, delicate footsies, Audrey Hepburn and leftbank Parisian (not mutually exclusive things, admittedly), I purchased these lovelies. Which are half a size too small and give me huge blisters on my heels and my toes within an hour of traipsing about in them.
I've tried stuffing them with wet newspaper, placing plastic bags filled with water in them before putting them in the freezer and even paid for them to be professionally stretched. All for naught. Pony skin, it would seem, does not stretch like leather does.
And now they sit in my wardrobe, tantalising out of wear. As happened to Tantalus, the rather nasty ancient Greek king whose eternal punishment was to stand below vines and their bounty of grapes which receded from his grasp each time he reached towards them to quench his thirst and hunger.
I wonder if there was any way to encourage one's feet to shrink?
