Monday, 23 September 2013


I have a friend called Liz.  She looks like butter wouldn't melt but is in fact a raging pervert.  (She would accept the label with pride.)  So there we were, this one day, walking down Tower Bridge Road towards Bricklayers Arms.  On that road, there is a charity shop run by a church of the "taking the Bible very literally indeed and no messing around" variety.  So imagine our surprise when there, in the window, was a pair of knee-length shiny PVC boots with a platform sole and ooh, at least a four-inch heel.  They were - let's say it openly - dominatrix boots.  And they were only £4.

Similar to this, only without a stranger's leg inserted

Needless to say, my kinky friend was practically salivating.  But!  Was it safe to go in and try them on?  Was this a honeytrap?  Would anyone asking about the boots be identified as a terrible sinner, whisked into a back room and exorcised?

You go in.  No you.  No you, no you, no you.

We ventured into the shop together and looked around.  Not a soul to be seen.  We tiptoed over to the window display.

Liz picked up the boots, slipped off her shoes and tried one on.  It was too small.  Her disappointment was palpable.  

"Why don't you try them on?" she suggested.

So I did try one on.  It was not too small but it was too late.  We had been spotted: a tall chap wearing an outsize gold cross was making his way over to us.  Recognising that I was in no position to walk unaided (let alone run), Liz gallantly sat by me, ready to defend me if necessary.  The man's face was stern as he stood over us.

"Would you like me to help lace you in?"

Well that was unexpected.

"Err, thanks, but I think I can manage."

"Well give me a shout if you need anything."

"Will do.  Cheers."

And with that, he walked away.

Reader, I bought them.

I still can't walk in them.

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