The worst possible news: my disco shoes are damaged beyond repair. They have finally shuffled off their final dancefloor. They are dead.
I bought them about 15 years ago, when spending £125 on a pair of frivolous clubbing shoes seemed the height of good sense. It was a time when Rach and I spent most of our free time clubbing - when we would devote entire weekends to the ritualistic preparation for, attendance at and recovery from parties. It was a very special time in my life that I will always remember with great fondness.
So it's all the more upsetting that one of the few material links back to those fun-filled times has finally given up the ghost. They went out in style though - I wore them to a party last night that was filled with more laughter and lunacy than any 45 year-old retired raver has any right to expect. Towards the end of a very confusing night I noticed that something wasn't quite right and inspected my left shoe, only to find a gaping hole where the heel should have been, with the black sole flapping about like an ill-fitting toupee in a stiff breeze. As I trudged home through the rain-sodden streets of Hove in the early hours of this morning I reflected on how much fun I've had in these shoes and how I'm never going to buy anything like them again.
When those shoes died, a little part of me went with them. This is a sad day.
