Traipsing through Soho on a bright morning, surprisingly sans hangover and thus in good spirits, I realise that today is the Boxing Day to my maintenance loan’s clearance. Rather than continuing to subconsciously avoid the side streets that I know may spring a honey trap of clothes-lust on me I decide that I could perhaps meander towards The Shops.
I am soon greeted by dangerously, unignorably alluring (read: skilfully visually merchandised) shop windows. Before long – it could have been minutes, maybe only even seconds; I was so caught in the generic rom-com moment I’m not entirely sure – I see Them. The perfect pair of shoes (“I mean it this time, I don’t know how but they’re different; they’re special”), resplendent in the UV light behind the slightly smeared glass in front of me. I rush in, maybe even pushing a precocious ten year old out of the way, and hurriedly grab the shop assistant, pointing and yelping “those - in a size eight please - quick!”
Before long my feet have glided willingly into their new homes and I totter towards the mirror, leaving my tattered brogues to mope by the ‘reduced’ section, to revel in my own glory. Who knew that a black suede court could look so effortlessly elegant? The effect just isn’t as breathtaking with the other six pairs in my wardrobe back home. I allow my foot to pop, reminiscent of the moment following a suffocatingly romantic first kiss, to check the price. I breathlessly squeal at the newly-formed rip in my heart as I calculate the percentage of my still-warm loan I’m considering doing away with in one swift transaction. But before my heart can sink much further my emotional accountant tosses it up into my mouth with a simple flick of the wrist. What was I thinking, denying myself this purchase? Why, this is love!
I see the sides blur and mentally transport myself forward into the world where I have bought the shoes and they have been lovingly integrated into the family within my wardrobe, accepted unbegrudgingly by my exes. I wear them each day and they alone give me the determination to attend every seminar and lecture, and in them I am miraculously on time. As thanks, they escort me to my graduation where I receive the highest First the university has ever seen, then right out into the real world and my dream job, complete with dream salary.
Then my mind lurches again, this time into the world where I left the shoes in the shop and managed to somehow make it home without jumping into the Thames. My feet can’t bring themselves to walk to campus without their solemates, and I stumble down the stairs barefoot a few weeks later to open the letter that tells me that I am no longer enrolled at UCL at all.
My mind’s wanderings have overwhelmed me to the extent that I’ve become light-headed and fear that I may faint. I hurtle back to reality and open my eyes, gasping with relief as I see the shoes that can and will change my life still luxuriously enveloping my feet. Any hesitation now seems absurdly laughable, even illogical; we have a real future together. In a moment of honeymoon bliss I throw my superfluous brogues into the box and glide over to the till to pay. I leave the shop walking on clouds made of pure joy, completely ignoring the dull ache already creeping into my little toe.
Jessica Wilde
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