This week I am delighted, thrilled and honoured to have a shoe post from Amy Gray (@amoir on Twitter). My husband thinks that I have a huge crush on her. He is right.
Amy has just published a bloody good book “How To Be A Vampire” which is out now in Australian book stores and online. Please buy it immediately (I did), hurt your friends until they buy it, cry and threaten self-immolation at bookstores if they don’t stock it and compliment any person you see reading it on their fabulous taste.
I hide my love of shoes. Point of fact, I cruelly deny it like some hairshirted Lutheran desperate to deny myself yet another indulgence (of which I already have too many). Generally, I find it impossible to find attractive shoes in Melbourne. This is possibly because I refuse to go searching or spending oodles of money, but also shows this windy city does not want me skittering about in towering inches of whimsy.
After an insane bout of working three contract jobs and writing a book at once (please refer to my previous point about hairshirts), I decided to treat myself to an online purchase at 3 o’clock one morning. I was quite possibly a bit manic at this point, so it seemed utterly logical to buy some fuck-off zombie heels from the adorably dark surf house, Iron Fist.
Their shoes are sublime. Whoever it is that designs their ladies line has earned some vodka and over-the-sweater action from me. Garish colours that are both aggressive and endearing, with beautiful imagery that could easily veer into tackdom but instead screams “Fuck off! Look at me!”
Strutting about in these babies on the street is huge fun. The reaction to them is priceless (some will chat with you about them, others will simply purse their lips) though my friends hate me for wearing them out as I walk slower than usual but quite frankly I am sure they’re just jealous. And so they should be. The shoes are fucking fabulous and come with teeth, rotting flesh and pretty black satin bows.
Strangely enough, buying the shoes made me realise my wardrobe was too puny to give adequate showcase to them so I ended up spending far too much money on designer dresses. They’ve converted and transformed me: I’m now a wriggling, strutting and occasionally stumbling mess of femininity.
After acquiring these magnificent undead beasties and dresses, I went over to Dublin and ended up gorging on shoes, buying another bag to bring them all home. European shoes are much more aligned to my personal style and, often, quite cheap. Gorgeous little spatzed felt ankle boots, petite black patent leather ballet points with heels and sculptural black canvas boots with a hidden heel (everything has a heel, I’m desperate for the calf-flattering). My fashion style has changed from cyber-street urchin-wanker to demented designer damsel.
Mind you, I can’t help but think of the shoes that got away: Pumas’ homage to Godzilla and cohorts. I desperately need to locate the Mothra sneakers lest they haunt my fetishistic dreams forever.