These shoes weren't made for walking

A few years ago I had a fashion epiphany.

It's the year 2003. I am working as a beauty editor on a glossy women's magazine. I have been invited to the Baftas. Some hot shot hairdresser has coiffed several A listers and his PR's want to shout about it by inviting a few journalists along. This is it. My Cinderella moment. The golden ticket.

I brush past Pierce Brosnan, I can see Jake Gyllanhall air-kissing Thandie Newton, Renee Zellwegger is a thin as a rake and I am sitting spitting distance from George Clooney (I did not test this theory, however in such head-spinning circumstances I did have an incredible urge to crowd surf across the room and plant a smacker on his stubbly cheek). I am having the most glamorous, star-studded night of my life. Except I am not. My face is reddened with embarrassment and my black-soled feet recoil in shame under my seat.

Rewind one hour. I am wearing a beautiful black and white lace vintage frock with a pair of metallic bronze 4 inch Jimmy Choo shoes. They are the sort of footwear women would sell their souls for. On that evening I did. I found these golden nuggets in the Jimmy Choo sale. They were half price and half a size too small. They made my feet look like Audrey Hepburns - small and perfectly formed. I felt fabulous. I had to have them. The red carpet at the Baftas would be their virgin voyage.

The traffic around Leicester Square is chaos and my car load of beauty eds are running late. A decision is made. We will ditch the black Merc along with the idea of arriving in style and we will make a dash to the event on foot. I feel like Carrie Bradshaw, clipping through the London streets in my Choos, skipping over gutters, clutching my faux fur stole.

The closer we get to the venue, the slower my step becomes. The springy SJP skip becomes a heavy stomp. The heavy stomp turns into a hobble. My feet are on fire. I check that blood is not pouring out of them as they feel like they have been sliced open with a knife. The circulation in my feet, then my ankles, and finally my legs slows and then grinds to a halt. I can no longer feel my toes. My feet are no longer part of me. They have hot-footed it elsewhere. I am walking but on what, I know not. Another decision is made. Fueled by pain and panic I yank off the shoes.

My body floats, elevated to the clouds above, spinning in pure ecstasy. My feet are free. The chains had been removed, the bars shot down.

That night, that glamorous night, I dipped my toe into the world of celebrity; and that toe was naked. I walked the red carpet bare foot. And I didn't care.

From that moment onwards I decided I was, and I still am a flat shoe girl.