A life with one signpost

Ah, the Open Road to Reading. Look where it's taken me. While not a genre I've consciously embraced, I realise now that it did start me on a path to road books.

First there was that great traveller Noddy, who lucks on a car in the second volume. While not the smartest toy in the box, he was an entrepreneur and soon became a self-employed taxi driver. I think it was his little red and yellow vehicle that got me in – and his loyal companion Bumpy Dog. And haven't we all come across a Mr Plod once or twice in our lives?

Broader horizons soon beckoned and I was sailing away with the Swallows and Amazons. Even though personally landlocked, I was right there beside them on those dinghies and lakes. I lived and loved those details. My memory is that they packed marvellous provisions, but now can't imagine salivating over corned beef, ginger beer and lemonade.

Master of the Swallow John Walker, Susan the mate, (the unfortunate) Able Seaman Titty and ship's boy Roger were no match in my mind for those wonderful Amazon girls, Nancy Blackett and sister Peggy (Ruth really, but after all, the Amazons were ruth-less). And what made it even better was that it was a series and I could travel on and on, adventure after adventure, although I have to admit I didn't get as far as We Didn't Mean to Go to Sea, and maybe it's just as well.

And then after many years I took a leap into Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Not much made sense in the '70s so it's not surprising you can now download the study guide.

Of course my son is always questioning my credentials and asks me if I have read On the Road by Kerouac; The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Wolfe; and The Odyssey by Homer. They're
still on my 'to read' list but I'll get to them one day, along with Steinbeck's Travels with Charley: In Search of America.

If only life's journey had one signpost like the Open Road to Reading.

The slippery slope of women's shoes

I spent my early childhood wearing what the Americans call 'Mary Janes', with a wide round toe and a strap across the instep fastened by a small silver buckle. Mine were sturdy mid-brown leather and were a good match for my uniform of dark brown corduroy trousers and bottle green and brown checked Vyella shirt. My mother was going the sensible, durable, no-fuss clothing route, or had hoped for a boy and left it too late to return this fetching ensemble to the shop.

While I honed my persuasive powers, I nagged and nagged my mother to let me look like other girls, and finally I scored a pair of black patent court shoes. Sophisticated beyond belief, they had no strap to hold them on and they sported a frivolous black grosgrain bow. My mother wasn't impressed but I was overjoyed – I was now on the slippery slope of women's shoes.

Black patent led to white patent, with cut-outs revealing a daring 6 square centimetres of foot which, now I think of it, probably went unnoticed when teamed with my thigh-high mini dress and matching knickers.

I was going nowhere fast at university wearing purple Swedish clogs and patchwork suede cork platform clogs when dressed to impress. Then I came to a standstill during an encounter with someone else's clog, which broke bones in my foot.

The boys to men I knew were not cool enough for Cuban heels (I'm sure they won't be reading this) and were far too down to earth to wear platform shoes, so I only developed a real appreciation for glam rock garb later in life.

When I pushed Barbie's plastic shoes onto her feet permanently moulded into stiletto mode, I didn't see what was coming. I briefly tried the stance in my '20s until I developed early onset back problems. So, I went back to my roots and it's been sensible shoes ever since – except maybe for the slender sandals that had to be stuck onto my foot with sticky tape.