Greg Singh

Apair of brightly-coloured, glittery baseball boots sit on top of a roadside telecoms box. There are trees in the background.

I didn’t even want to go to prom.
My mum made me go so I could wear those shoes.
My feet were covered in blisters.
My calves screamed in agony: I couldn’t even dance in them. What was the point?
All for the sake of a few photo opps for mum’s Facebook.

There we were – stood by the punchbowl chatting about boys, listening to Rhianna blasting through the old, blown-out speakers the school had installed since, like, the 60s or something. To be fair, I was the tallest in our group with those heels on. But the dress I wore that evening was a bit pinchy, if I’m honest, and I only wore it to please my mum.

Like those bloody shoes.

They must have cost here more than I earn in a week at the café. But what can I say? I’m just not a “heels” kind of girl. I couldn’t wait to take them off. Get into my tie-dye vintage Converse, kick my feet up and watch Ru Paul.

Getting a lift back with Jen, Polly and the others was a good choice – I wouldn’t have made it 20 yards in this weather. As I got out of Jen’s car, the left heel buckled under my cider-and-black legs.


I through them towards the wheelie bin and headed in, my comfy, psychedelic canvas shoes waiting for me

“What do you mean, you threw them out?” I screamed at mum.
“What do YOU mean, you threw THEM out?” she screamed at me.

The next day, I went to the shop to buy some coke and crisps. Time for a duvet day, I thought to myself. On my way back in, I noticed the wheelie bin: Those hurty heels mum loved on me so much. I never did find my Converse. They were customised in-store. Mum hated them. That was one of the reasons I enjoyed wearing them, if I’m honest. I was gutted she threw them out, but I guess we’re as bad as each other.