The sad story of my magical Aladdin slippers

Ah, shoes. Shoes, wonderful shoes. You all know I love shoes - I am the woman, after all, who has a shoe cupboard occupying the space in her master bedroom where the fireplace once was. Certainly, it was My One True Love's idea, but he did it for me. He ripped off the mantlepiece, pulled out the framing, removed the fireplace itself, hollowed out the cavity properly, and now I have a shoe cupboard in the cavity, and it reaches almost all the way to the ceiling.

So you might not think I need any more shoes. My One True Love would agree: he'd say Shoes! You don't need any more shoes! And I always laugh indulgently and admonish him by saying, It's not about need, My One True Love.

It comes as no surprise then, that I have been on the look out for some Arabian slippers since I arrived. You know the ones - Aladdin slippers, with the toes turned up and beautiful beading and embroidery all over them.

I love their gorgeous jewel-like colours - so pretty! I love the delicate stitching, and the metallic threads that are used to pick out the patterns.

I love the different fabrics - striped, spotted, or simply plain.

I love that they are perfect house slippers; definitely not the sort of thing you'd wear outdoors. No, these are for inside, for wearing in the afternoons and evenings, just because they're beautiful and you deserve something beautiful. Something that's just for home.

And it's for all those reasons that I am devastated to discover that these slippers Do Not Fit Me. I am not Cinderella when it comes to these shoes. I am the ugly stepsister in the fairytale, who would have to cut off a toe or a heel in order to slip her foot inside.

I must have tried on over thirty pairs in the past three months. But it's clear, they're all cut from the same mould, and their shape just doesn't fit my feet. They cramp my toes, or pinch my instep, or rub against my arches. I don't have massive feet, by the way, I'm a European size 37 (Australian 6.5). I don't have bad bunions or pointy heels. I have an odd toes on my right foot, for sure, but it's not the reason these shoes don't fit. They just .... don't.

So I will return home in three weeks, sadly slipper-less. My One True Love will no doubt be pleased, and the shoe cupboard will be glad not to have to find extra space behind its almost-bursting doors.

But I have these photos to comfort me, at least, and in my dreams my dainty feet will be shod in delicate, magical, fairytale Aladdin slippers.

Elegy for a little yellow shoe

Today I did something that makes me a little concerned about my sanity. It's only ever happened once before, in my entire life. But worryingly, the time before that it happened was only four weeks ago. I'm deeply anxious about what this might mean for me.

It's so horrible I can barely even bear to confess it. I ... I ....(deep breath) .... I returned a pair of shoes.

I know! Me! Returned shoes! Me, who is mentally ripping out the fireplace in her bedroom and designing a special shoe cupboard to go in there instead! This is surely some kind of sickness.

The first time it happened, in early December, I had bought a pair of pretty plain black ballet flats from David Jones. I tried on ten thousand pairs and ended up buying one, but even as the assistant was lovingly wrapping them in tissue paper, I had a sense of foreboding. I knew they weren't quite right. I knew they pinched a little at the heel.  But I bought them, because my old flats had fallen to bits and I desperately needed a new pair. Such folly.

And so it was that the very next morning, I took myself and the shoes straight back there, and returned them. And at the time, I thought that was the end of it. I was allowed a single lapse, wasn't it?

Apparently I wasn't, because it's happened again.

I blame the interweb. I bought these little beauties from French Sole in the UK, because I adore yellow shoes and there is a serious dearth of nice yellow shoes in Melbourne at the moment. I was on tenterhooks waiting for them to arrive - they took forever, because they got caught up in the Christmas mail backlog -  but they FINALLY arrived a few days ago.

I took them out of the box, exclaimed over the gorgeous deep colour and the lovely rounded toe. Like Cinderella, I carefully slid my dainty pointed foot into their shape, stood up .... and realised there was no way I could walk in them because they Just Didn't Fit.

Oh woe is me! Oh tragedy! The agony of a shoe that does not fit!

I'd have cut off a toe, or a heel, if I'd thought it would help; just like Cinderella's ugly stepsisters.  I can certainly empathise with them. But I put the mental knife away, because part of the reason for migrating to ballet flats is because I seem to have reached some kind of shoe denouement, where I am no longer prepared to suffer for beauty. Consequently, I'm wearing heels less and less, and flats more and more.

It was with great sorrow that I boxed them back up and sent them home to England. On the front of the box, below the address, I drew a little picture of a woman weeping tenderly, with a friend patting her on the back and a thought bubble from the friend's head that says "the sadness of a shoe that does not fit". So hopefully the woman who opens the box to put the return through will get a little laugh out of that at least.

Goodbye, little yellow shoe. I loved you.