Big Gob

Teetering on heels on a wintry night in Glasgow has Kathleen Morgan swearing off girlie sophistication forever

IT SEEMED like a good idea at the time - seven hours to go until the ball and the chance to buy a pair of strappy gold high-heeled sandals at a quarter of their original price. I could barely say the word stilettos let alone walk in them, but this pair was going to the ball, along with a bronze sequin cocktail dress and an sparkly organza wrap.

I was one of three Press Ball virgins who had decided to pay my 35 quid and see what all the fuss was about. Another #18 for the sandals was a small price to pay to look like a proper woman, especially when the #75 price tag was still attached. A few strategically uttered aahs from the shop assistant and some advice about how to tie the strappy bits up my ankles like Russell Crowe in Gladiator, and I felt ready to face the media world a couple of inches taller.

The best way to learn how to walk in heels before some of the most hard-bitten cynics in Scotland is to line your stomach with champers. The bubbles did the trick and before long, I was gliding into the Press Ball at the Hilton alongside women who looked like they had come into this world Jimmy Choos first.

The problems began when, after deciding I'd had it with balls, I wobbled outside in search of a taxi. Flagging down a cab on a Saturday night is impossible enough in Glasgow, without having to stagger through the red light district, cursing the ridiculous excuse for shoes I was wearing. By the time the second private car drew up for its driver to ask, "taxi?", the words to You'll Never Walk Alone were ringing in my ears.

I did get home in one piece, although my feet felt as though they had been put through a mincer. It seems there's always a price for wearing high heels, even if it's a fraction of the original.

Copyright 2001
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