Is this the shoe wardrobe of a mature, cosmopolitan, world-travelled lady artist? Or the rejects of a clueless twelve-year old? I'm afraid it's my shoe collection, all of it, apart from the Birkenstock sandals I'm wearing. Those flower-patterned booties are a recent demented addition. The grown-up black boots at the back are those I wore once to the Guardian party and will never wear again. Likewise the brown mettallic-sheen lace-up ankle boots (top left)which I bought, expensively, in Paris on another demented impulse three years ago and wore twice (they make my feet look enormous and take forever to put on and take off).
It's the weather, you see. The sun has finally come out and with it, the seasonal urge to clear everything out and start again. I'm sure there is some deep Freudian reason for the shoe choices of my life but I'm damned if I know what it is. Maybe y'all can enlighten me?
Meanwhile, I'm preparing the next installment of the autobio as some kind of multi-media thing.