Although I am not an introvert in the typical sense, I know that I am not a “joiner” either. I had a deep loathing for both Brownies and Girl Guides although I liked the accessories – who wouldn’t want that interlocking belt or that much coveted pencil on a retractable cord? But even though I kept forcing myself to join (book clubs, school committees, yoga) when the appointed night came around, I couldn’t bear the thought of going. Surprisingly then, it was unusual for me to attend not one, but three sessions of writing classes at our little library, where a wonderful writer – talented, gentle and quirky – was leading creative writing classes. One of the suggestions she offered for a daily writing warm-up was to choose any random word and write, stream of conscious style if we liked, about whatever drifted forward.

And to date, this method has never failed me.

I

I have loved shoes ever since I was a child and red shoes were always the ultimate. Like many young girls, I desperately wanted Dorothy’s ruby slippers or at least shoes that were Shiny Red but apparently, these were not readily available. My mother offered a feeble defense that the ox-blood lace-up brogues she had purchased for me were “just the same, really,” but clearly, they were not.

II

When I was about fifteen, my parents had guests visiting from England, and I popped my head in to politely say goodbye as I headed out for the evening with my friends. I was wearing a pair of new high heels, platforms really, which I had bought myself with the proceeds from a part-time job. They were gleaming like black glass and I loved the way I walked in them. My dad suddenly bolted upright, his gaze fixed on my feet. “You’re not going anywhere in those.” The quiet voice. I heard the ice shifting in someone’s gin and tonic. Within seconds – I am not making this up – he had somehow produced a tape measure and making me hold up my foot behind me, like a horse being shod, he snapped it back and said: “Four inches!” The way he said it was Shakespearean. My cheeks burned. I was too upset to be angry.

It was then that my savior - The Visiting Friend - said in a firm Newcastle accent: “You can’t keep her back, Harry – she’s quite the young woman now and those shoes, they are lovely on her.” I had never, ever experienced such support and kindness. I felt a rush of gratitude so strong it still makes me well up to think of her, a bright crimson crescent on the end of her cigarette, her blue eyes dancing behind thick glasses. “You don’t be late now,” she added and with a confirming eye widening from my mother, I was gone.

Which is why I would always get dressed at a friend’s house in the future …

III

Then there is the disturbing shoe story attributed to my not-so-pleasant grandmother who, apparently, could never accept that her feet had gone up a size and insisted on buying shoes that did not fit. She always bought expensive shoes – often with large rigid diamante bows at the front not unlike those favoured by Minnie Mouse – and insisted that my grandfather wear them around the house until they had been stretched to her liking.

Whether or not he enjoyed the process – perhaps it was even his idea, I cannot say – I suspect it was an alarming sight for unexpected company …