The clouds part, the angels chorus, a singly ray of sunlight beams down from the sky and the earth stops moving. The second coming you might think. Not yet. It’s Schuh on Oxford Street. This is what happens upon my first encounter with the heavenly shoe shop. Imagine having every single beautiful shoe ever made at your immediate disposal – Dr Martens of every size, shape and colour, the magnificent platforms of T.U.K, and a multitude of heels that the Harajuku girls on the streets of Tokyo would break necks to stake their claim to. Of course, the grey English sky returns and the angels’ chorus fades into the distance as I gradually become aware that the shoes are only at my disposal if I can cough up the cost. (more…)

Whilst lacing my 20-ups on Saturday evening, I couldn’t help but smile down upon my faithful friends who have accompanied me on many a journey. As I stretched out my hand to stroke them I realised that personifying one’s shoes is probably a clear sign of psychosis. My husband, in all seriousness, has told me that I love my Docs more than him and he honestly believes that the reason I agreed to immigrated to the UK (from South Africa) is because the selection of Docs is greater here. The poor man. If I was in love with a motocross bike or a skateboard or even a play station, perhaps he would cut me some slack. Um…I think I just admitted that I am in love with my shoes. Wait…backtrack. Yup, I did. (more…)