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.