Oh My Aching Feet

I thought I would brighten up your Sunday with this poem about my aching feet…. I’m thinking about using this in the book I’m planning to write next year about the joys of ageing, (good and bad!) What do think?

Oh My Aching Feet

I’m done with wearing high heels and stilettoes aren’t for me,
they make me stagger like a drunk, that’s not my cup of tea.
My feet have spread like butter and it’s comfort now I seek,
not those pretty, little, pixie pumps, so elegant and chic.

Roomy, wide and comfortable are the flavours of the day,
the perfect shoe solution for my ‘plates of meat’ to splay.
Throbbing feet aren’t sexy and neither is a limp.
I’d rather look all comfy than to walk just like a chimp.

Platform shoes and sling-backs are consigned to history,
sneakers, brogues and nice wide flats are where I need to be.
Tantalising thigh high boots, alluring as they are,
completely off the list I’d say, now sadly ‘au revoir’.

Designer shoes are has-beens, no Jimmy Choo or Dior.
Just give me e-width beauties to walk along the floor.
Let me liberate my bunions, let them deviate and grow,
perhaps I’ll wear the boxes so the bulges will not show!

My feet are now my nemesis, the blight to any shoe,
I’m reduced to being sensible, so what’s this girl to do?
If I disregard my aching feet I’ll pay a tidy price.
Do I opt for pain and suffering in order to look nice?

So it’s ta-ta to très chic then and hello to sheer bliss,
It‘s slippers verses court shoes and the fashion of Paris.
My feet are in true ecstasy so pampered there within,
no throbbing soles or burning heels just my joyous happy grin.

Written by: Teresa Harrison-Best