I know there are some of you more concerned about your slightly expanding waistline / thighs / bum (admit it, not all of us are jumping about in our living rooms, sweating away with the lovely Joe Wicks) but for me, I’m more worried about my feet. 

 

Ok, so it’s not like they were petite Cinderella-esque tootsies before - all the more reason for my dread - but not having had the occasion to adorn these plates of meat with any of my lovely ‘going out’ - or even ‘going out-out’ - shoes means that they have become a tad comfortable à la anchor spreadable, if you know what I mean. 

I sometimes wonder how come I ended up being ‘blessed’ with such generously proportioned extremities (at least my hands are a normal size, thank goodness) and I could even tell you about the time, when out shoe shopping, the ever-so-brave shop assistant on hearing the size of shoe required said “haha! Why don’t you just wear the box?” but let’s not revisit that time shall we? 

My mum and dad are both of an average size (haha, actually my dad is more of a munchkin now cos apparently you shrink in height as you age (notice I said ‘in height’ cos his belly hasn’t been listening!!)) and my sisters all have ordinary sized feet; indeed, one sister is a quaint size 34/35 and revels in the fact that she can buy her sports shoes in the children’s department (no tax payable so 20% cheaper!!) 

I’ve been looking longingly at my spiky Louboutins, my birthday Jimmy’s and my shiny Dune heels and wondering whether I should just get some display boxes instead….