What was the point? Why? She hardly ever wore them.

They fit me and I needed them. I liked sling-backs. So why not?

They were pale green suede — peppermint actually -

with peep toes and wedge heels. She never showed her feet, so why?

I had painted my toe nails pink to match the butterflies. So why not?

She was going to Bingo, and would stay with her friend overnight. Her shoes would hang there for 24 hours, pristine, unused.

I always go dancing on Thursdays - so why not?

She's so boring. She's 24 — engaged even, with a proper ring for God's sake, and a ‘bottom drawer’.

No-one believes we're sisters. I'm seventeen, popular, getting a passport. I'm cool — so why not?

***

I stepped into her shoes and moved the hand-mirror down to my varnished toenails. The

cerise shade matched exactly the butterflies on the ankle straps. I knew after the impact of those colours, once I turned around, the shimmering wings near my heels would provide another surprise to any likely suitor. The room was well lit - it would be spectacular.

I carried them tenderly and once inside the club, took them from my bag, slipped into them,

and placed my plimsolls in the corner. I walked carefully to start with, but after a few steps became confident and placed each foot more elegantly, confident in knowing in the floor lighting my feet would sparkle like stars. I noticed glances from boys who rarely gave me a look before, but more gratifyingly I noticed girls my own age or older whose eyes shone with envy.

Cha cha lessons first, and the Cuban beat showed them off to perfection. Then a New York version meant strutting about up and down in a line — more admiring stares. I rarely did ballroom, but once a quickstep began, I grabbed Howard, just a slow learner but that just meant more stopping and twirling on my heels. As the music ended I did one final dramatic turn and, carried away, almost did a flamboyant curtsey to the assembled crowd.

Then a heavy hand gripped my shoulder, accompanied by a low threatening growl. ‘What the hell are you doing?'. My sister had turned into Reggie Kray.

I couldn't speak and her voice got louder, ‘How dare you? Take them off.’

I started feebly, "You said you were going to Bingo and .... '

"Take them off. You had no right! Take them off now!’

Her cheeks were crimson with anger. I bent and slipped off the shoes and she plucked them from my fingers then strode across the room. I lowered my head, but not before registering

the shock on the faces of the lads, and the smirks on the girls’. My friend Fiona placed my plimsolls nearby.

***

Years passed. My sister married the joiner, and I married Howard. He never did learn to

dance properly, but now he's a venture capitalist in ‘tiger economies’ — whatever that means.

I do know what it means: it means designer clothes, champagne, new cars, foreign

holidays but, more importantly, shoes. I was very young when I realised where my true love lay. My early misdemeanour laid out my path for life.

A regular customer of Jimmy Choo, Manolo Blahnik, Vivienne Westwood, I even get some

handmade to my own specifications in Italy. Friends are complimentary, but I can see they wonder why I keep buying several pairs each season, which usually only get a single outing.

I have never needed a psychologist — back in Yorkshire my dad would have said ‘they only

know how many bumps make five' . I can analyse my own behaviour; I have my own therapy.

For over fifty years I have pampered my feet, treating them with reverence and wearing only the

best that money can buy.

By the time I was seventeen I knew I was an exhibitionist, I needed to be noticed and exude

style. But I can honestly say that no pair of shoes has ever given me that thrill of excitement, as in 1968, when I entered the Mecca Ballroom, in my sister's trashy sling-backs, which she bought in Kirkgate Market for 12/6d.