I THOUGHT you were supposed to shrink with age but my feet seem to be getting bigger.
For years I took a size six shoe which meant I was just out of the children's section. Over the last few years, I have expanded to a seven.
My feet are in proportion to my size. I am below average in height, although not so diminutive that I could audition as a Hobbit (three feet six inches, apparently). For years I have been buying track suit bottoms for youths aged 13 because even a small adult pair concertina so much I could play a tune.
This has never given me a complex and I have always consoled myself with what my mother told me: they don't make diamonds as big as bricks.
She also said my widow's peak was one of the seven points of beauty but, as she didn't mention the other six, I presume I never had them. Leonardo Di Caprio has a widow's peak, probably as part of the complete set, particularly if wealth, fame, talent, looks, height and charisma are included.
So a seven shoe size is fine but when I bought a new pair of trainers the other day, I thought I would need an eight. Am I regenerating into a different shape? Perhaps I will be the next Dr Who? The new sevens were tight and uncomfortable when I put them on at home.
At my age, I avoid trying anything on in a store.
“Can I try these on?” I might ask of the young lady doorkeeper to the changing rooms, holding up a selection of casual tops.
“You? In those?” her look might suggest.
And, let's face it, sitting down to try on a pair of white trainers in Sports Direct might also attract raised eyebrow and the unspoken query: “What do you need new trainers for at your age?”
So I bought them untried and now they were so tight that I walked like a ballerina.
“Shall I take them back?” said Maria.
“No. I've got an idea,” I said.
“What's that?”
“I'll cut my toe nails.”
And do you know, they now fit perfectly, which is a relief that my body is not shape shifting but disappointing that I won't be the new Dr Who.
For years I took a size six shoe which meant I was just out of the children's section. Over the last few years, I have expanded to a seven.
My feet are in proportion to my size. I am below average in height, although not so diminutive that I could audition as a Hobbit (three feet six inches, apparently). For years I have been buying track suit bottoms for youths aged 13 because even a small adult pair concertina so much I could play a tune.
This has never given me a complex and I have always consoled myself with what my mother told me: they don't make diamonds as big as bricks.
She also said my widow's peak was one of the seven points of beauty but, as she didn't mention the other six, I presume I never had them. Leonardo Di Caprio has a widow's peak, probably as part of the complete set, particularly if wealth, fame, talent, looks, height and charisma are included.
So a seven shoe size is fine but when I bought a new pair of trainers the other day, I thought I would need an eight. Am I regenerating into a different shape? Perhaps I will be the next Dr Who? The new sevens were tight and uncomfortable when I put them on at home.
At my age, I avoid trying anything on in a store.
“Can I try these on?” I might ask of the young lady doorkeeper to the changing rooms, holding up a selection of casual tops.
“You? In those?” her look might suggest.
And, let's face it, sitting down to try on a pair of white trainers in Sports Direct might also attract raised eyebrow and the unspoken query: “What do you need new trainers for at your age?”
So I bought them untried and now they were so tight that I walked like a ballerina.
“Shall I take them back?” said Maria.
“No. I've got an idea,” I said.
“What's that?”
“I'll cut my toe nails.”
And do you know, they now fit perfectly, which is a relief that my body is not shape shifting but disappointing that I won't be the new Dr Who.
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