High heels are here to stay & now they’re after your children

High heel for child

Apparently sales of high-heeled shoes are on the up. Seeing as women pay mad amounts of money just for the glimpse of a red sole, this may come as no surprise. But the problem in this instance is that these heels aren’t for women, they are in fact for children.

Suri Cruise is to blame for this according to the New York Times. The seven year old offspring of the strangest man in the world (albeit a very wealthy and powerful man) chooses to spend her days tottering around in a pair of glittery peep-toes – large heel included. ‘Chooses’ is the key word there. Of course a small girl who likes pink and dreams about being a princess (completely unaware that she is treated as one in reality and does live in a whopping great castle unlike the rest of us minions) is going to want to wear sparkly shoes. It’s Wizard of Oz without the green faced witch. It’s prancing down a yellow brick road without the flying monkeys. It’s fun.

The problem here isn’t Suri or the other children that have these strappy numbers attached to their feet. The problem is the parents. I mean I’d love to leave the house swathed in an oversized blanket clutching a hot water bottle. Or wrap myself in a bin bag when it’s lashing outside and all I really want to do is lie down next to the radiator. But I don’t. Because well apart from the looks of ‘are you mad’ from the general population, it’s just not the done thing. I don’t think my boss would like it, especially if there were meetings involved or any way at all that I was in contact with the general public. Plus I think after a while I may not be able to distinguish the parts of my life anymore as they would all bleed into one big blanket fest. The children may like and want these shoes, but it’s the one with the wallet that buys them. Prancing around in your mother’s (or father’s) heels is no longer a fun thing to do at home, now you can make it a baby’s reality.


I have to wonder what the thought process is behind this (hopefully) new fad. I mean are these heel purchasing parents just indulging their children’s every whim? Are they worried that their small feet will not get enough bunions and blisters in their life so they need to start early? Is it some kind of endurance test for the products of their loins? A kind of – if you survive a week in those things without socks and on daily walks up a steep hill then you are the master of your destiny, a child truly worthy of my love and attention.

I guess it was only a matter of time before the shoes came next. Everything else in the shops, particularly for girls, is a mini version of what their mother would wear. Or a woman with a penchant for crop tops, tutus and strapless numbers. Why do we all seem in such a rush for kids to grow up? The lines now seem blurred between child and adult, the age of consent merely a watermark that the tide has long swept away.

While writing this I can’t help think of the great sketch in ‘Modern Family’ when the child Lily keeps running away at Disneyland and they don’t know how to stop her. Her grandfather, married to a 8 inch-heeled woman himself knows exactly what to do and takes Lily shopping. When they return she is in heels and shuffling around the place like an arthritic elderly person on a Zimmer frame. Problem solved, parents happy.

So maybe that’s it. Maybe all these parents just want their kids to calm down and take it easy so they can too. I mean after all it’s a better option than Ritalin.


It all blows up when you watch the IFTAS


It all blows up when you watch the IFTAS

This weekend I learned just how traumatic staying over at someone else’s house can be.

It was meant to be a relaxing weekend, one full of sleep and creativity. Instead it somehow turned into copious amounts of wine, biting and a taunting blow up bed.

The aforementioned mayhem had that extra dimension due to the fact it all took place at my boyfriend’s house, a quagmire of potential faux pas and mishaps as it is. When I arrived it was obvious some drinking had taken place and I joined them in the pub. Due to a deadline for a family dinner, given with the sternest of warnings, we navigated our way our way out of there after one swift drink.

Once at dinner the wine glasses kept getting topped up. Gravy slopped and slipped, jokes shot out with boomerang efficiency and dessert time came. The sugar perked everyone up, particularly the younger contingent of nieces and nephews that along with a saccharine rush realised that in only 10 hours they would be on a plane with gadgets to enjoy and their parents in a confined space to torture. After a lot of jumping and goodbyes they left with a hassled looking mum with an encyclopedia of ‘things to do’ ahead of her.

Down to four we moved into the lounge and waited for the IFTAS. I usually avoid these award shows full of backslapping and overzealous praise, but as my boyfriend plans to be up for one of them next year I watched in the vein of support. Collectively we groaned; at the bad singing, stumbled introductions sped through like a nervous child rather than as an accomplished actor in a lead TV series and at the plethora of black dresses (this was mainly me really) that made me feel like I was watching a live funeral. It was a desperately awkward version of the Oscars with calipers and bottle-top thick glasses.

While all of this exuberant berating was going on we kept drinking. Bottles ran out and others appeared. Now I am not complaining about this fact. Wine is great, particularly as an accompaniment to giving out to the television, but some were drinking more than others. There was some indication of this throughout as I felt a pair of teeth biting me intermittently. No it wasn’t the dog, but my ‘getting drunker’ boyfriend who thought the pain infliction and impending ‘owww’ was hilarious.

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