These boots were not made for walking

There’s having cool personal style and there is getting stuck in a rut. I know this but I can’t clarify the difference although by its very nature the rut aspect probably means it affects older people rather than younger ones — ie, me. Like most people I have my uniforms, fat day, confident day, notice-me day, please-don’t-notice-me day. Although who am I kidding, really it’s usually just some variation on jeans day. Some people want to lose weight to fit into ballgowns. I wanted to lose weight to be able to wear jeans.

And with the jeans I usually wear boots. Not in summer but that’s only a couple of months so in real time I usually wear boots. Realising I was steering perilously close to a rut I decided that, after the summer break when I went mad and wore jeans and runners, I should make a change for autumn/winter. So I bought um, different boots. Wild, I know.

The Girlchild had told me about losing her footing in public and, to her credit, laughed as she told me about leaping up, ignoring all agony and actual injury in order to minimise the number of witnesses to her humiliation. I remembered falling down a crowded bus stairs in a mini skirt and yellow tights at about her age and getting up with the same speed, my main fear being humiliation, not broken bones.

Autumn descended, on with the new boots and into town. Clack clack, a new noise. And, squeeeak. A new sensation. Slipping. There was that slow-mo moment of nearly falling, then a miracle of righting myself but not without a lot of flailing. It was a big obvious slip on a crowded street. Yet all I could think was “Yay! No injury!” It turns out pride only comes before a fall when you’re young. When you’re old, pride doesn’t come into a fall.