It seems wild to me now that I used to wear heels – and I mean high heels – every day. To work, and then out afterwards, 12, 15 hours straight. But at the time it felt entirely normal. The discomfort was one of those daily traumas you become desensitised to, the same way that rush-hour commuters don’t think twice about spending a train ride nose-deep in a stranger’s armpit. Blisters, heel tips bitten off by gratings, the odd sprained ankle, and constant taxi rides I could ill afford were all part of everyday life.
The stiletto’s long reign of terror began losing its hold in the streetwear-obsessed 2010s, and then along came lockdown and the comfort-first revolution. This has been the decade of the loafer and the party flat. My collection of needle-thin, 4-inch-plus Manolos, Louboutins and Choos now live in a display cabinet, the gorgeous but obsolete relics of an ancien régime.
