Foot loose and fancy free

Oh Lordy, to try on the beautiful red leather boots with the jaunty bow, I have to remove my old Mock-Ugg boots.

You'd think the fact that I've had my Turd-Detector (that's eyes to you) on Red Alert all the way to the shoe-shop, and that any dog electing to squat amongst the densely-marching ranks of Victoria commuters would have to be built like a Sumo wrestler, would ensure that my boots are immaculately clean. Having OCD though, I'm personally convinced that at some point my concentration has waned on my journey and I've trodden in a Something.

So what? you ask reasonably - not the end of the world. Oh yes it is. The excrement of Dog has taken on mythic proportions in my mind and now has the stature of a nuclear holocaust combined with total social exclusion. Not that there'd be much society left if …

Anyway. Having inspected each foot in a position which would impress Yoga-goers, with pedestrians veering round me on the pavement, I'm still not convinced the soles are completely clean. But, jostled crossly by a unnecessarily abrupt man who also wants to buy shoes in his lunch-hour, I find myself cannoning across the busy shop floor on tiptoe, like a hippo from Fantasia. After bouncing off an assistant, I sit gingerly on to a padded stool – briefly inspecting it for dirt - then discreetly shove my head between my knees to look at my boots again.

Seeing another pair of shoes out of the corner of my eye, I become aware that a dead ringer for George Clooney is standing patiently in front of me, holding out a red shoe.
'Oh, thank you, thanks, I felt faint,' I gabble, hurriedly returning to the vertical and purple from sniffing surreptitiously down at ankle level. Dead Ringer looks handsomely apprehensive and holds the shoe box out towards me, as you might when feeding a Hyena.

'I'm fine now,' I say, convinced everyone in the busy shop is staring at me. Keeping my hands well clear, I yank away at my boots with my toes. Thank heaven they don't have zips: if I had to actually touch the damned things, I'd really faint. Either that or I'd have to find a way of discreetly sniffing my fingers ...

'Shit!' A searing pain tears at my calf and sweat jumps out on my face.
'Are you sure you're OK?'
'Yessss. Fine. Sorry, think I've pulled a calf muscle.'
To his puzzlement, I buy the boots without trying them on, trying to remember not to sniff at my long hair, which I'm sure swung forward and touched my Ugh-Ugg when I was bending down ...
I limp out of the shop and back to work.

Diana at the office says enviously: 'Ooh, let's have a look ... Wow! Someone's been having a self-indulgent lunch-hour - nothing like a spot of retail therapy for making you feel better, is there though? … I didn't realise you had such small feet – did you try them on?'

- Helen Poskitt -