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Best Foot Forward

I get the buzz every month and I know I should do something about it.

I'm a woman with no dependants, a disposable income, and luckily-thanks to parents who descend from the Ebenezer bloodline-I'm pretty good at juggling my finances. My only debt is my mortgage.

Imelda Marcos syndrome. That's what I have. Every month; same department store, same shoe boutique. I'm sure they'll dedicate a seat after me soon. Although, that's usually done for dead people. Isn't it?

The twitchy-eyed one served me this month and recommended the red ballet pumps. She wasn't at all her nervous self and even smiled at me. Or was it a grimace? I bought them as a comfortable change to my usual heels. I must admit, they wore like loveable slippers and I'd not had them off. In fact, ...it's true... I'd not actually taken them off.

I... couldn't... get... them... off.

They itched and my feet began to tap incessantly. They were getting out of control. Instead of my monthly excursions to appease my syndrome, I found myself dragged there every week; served by twitchy Vicky, who became more smiley and confident as I became anxious and desperate.

We never spoke. I'd sit there trying to remove the demonic shackles whilst she brought out the most expensive limited editions to the till. Her eyes glowed and flickered 'kerching' as she registered her commissions.

My mother pronounced that this shoe obsession-more a possession now-would be the death of me.

Or was it debt?

Story by:

Debbie

submitted at 12:00pm

12 September 2011

Debbie's web:

bookwormbitesback.blogspot.com