The Wedge Factor

I would like to share with you all, my stylistic saving grace - Wedges!

As a person of demure height who has gone through life at ground level, forced to ‘look up to’ my peers towering over me thanks to their reinforced stature – I would like to thank the shoe world for, wedges.



Whoever knew one could realise the joy of height and comfort. As I discovered, the beauty of wedges is the solid platform which joins the sole and heel together in one fluid sweep of leather, cork or wood. Gone is the need for unnatural balancing acts as you totter down the street looking like an ungainly gazelle, or shifting from one foot to the other in order to ease the burning discomfort, or throwing hard-earned cash at startled Boots and Superdrug cashiers as you stock up on so many pairs of Party Feet gel pads.



Akin to the slim-inducing properties of wearing black, wedges bestow upon individuals such as my 5”4 self, who cannot master the art of wearing high heels, the illusion of towering glamazonian stiletto prowess. The wedge could be said to be to shoes what stabilizer wheels are to bicycles; allowing clumsy young women and five year-old children alike the luxury of joining in with a trend already mastered by their contemporaries.

Like so many members of the female population I have, at times, an unhealthy obsession with all things Carrie Bradshaw. Not quite embroiled with my screen-queen to stretch to becoming a smoker and coffee drinker – I confess, I am a committed non-smoker and lifelong advocate of the green tea – the one Bradshaw luxury I wish to succumb to is “very high heels”. Though I may not be able to afford her coveted labels of Blahnik, Louboutin and Choo, I aspire to achieve the poise and skill of walking in high heels, which she makes look as easy as Serena Williams does winning a grand slam title.

Inspired by several trends endorsed by my style icon, I pillaged the virtual ASOS shoe lounge following the debut of the SATC movie in 2008, furnishing my already duly populated assortment of footwear with two pairs of skyscraper heels. Attempting to stand in my newly acquired 4 inch extreme black gladiator sandals (in the style of Christian Dior) was a feat of epic proportions (pun intended). However as I contemplated navigating the Kilburn High Road for the New Years Eve outing they were destined for, I felt a thrill of fear down my spine – not least for the impact my new shoes would have on it.



Leaning on my fiancé – who unhelpfully spent the majority of the 20 minute ordeal shaking quite uncontrollably with laughter – I hobbled to the bar. Honestly, if men had to experience the pain we go through to achieve beauty they would rethink the mockery! Once we arrived I thankfully sank into the sofa in our reserved area and remained there for the duration of the evening. Feeling like some royal or celestial being, friends attended to me, dutifully admiring my head-to-toe ensemble, forming a sociable cluster around the sofa while I observed and participated from my seated vantage point. Fearing the hobblesome return journey at the end of the night, I reluctantly admitted defeat and replaced my heels with the Feet Fairies I had earlier concealed in my handbag. Another fantastic fashion discovery!



I am inclined to blame this heel-intolerance on my mother, who on taking me shopping at age 13 for party shoes, allowed me to try on a pair of gorgeous black heels and then point-blank refused to buy them for me – despite my plaintive attempts to appeal to her good-will. She maintained that I would never wear them again and therefore they were not worth the £20 (it was the 1990s) she would have to pay for them. From that moment on, “high-heels” became the elephant in our North-London home, carefully side-stepped prior to every shoe-shopping excursion.

I sorrowfully looked on as school assemblies quickly spiraled into self-depreciative pity parties, as I mentally compared the heel-height on every other girl’s shoes parading past me daily. My tweenage years passed by in a blur of school discos, inconsequential dates and girlie weekend trips to town with only brogues, plimsols and pumps for company. I purposely surrounded myself with friends shorter than me to regain some of the confidence lost in developing a height-specific complex.

Until one day, I was presented with a large white box and inside was a pair of black knee-high velvet boots with, a wedge heel. It was a Eureka! moment; my mother had found a loophole in the ‘no heels’ clause and I was magically elevated a few inches beyond my then hobbit-adjacent 5ft frame. I wore them everywhere and still have a photograph of me wearing them, complete with cream roll-neck top and black mini, tacked to the inside of my wardrobe. In homage to this special discovery my shoe collection will always include a pair of knee-high velvet black boots, with a wedge heel.



Wedges have become my not-so-secret fashion indulgence as I purchase a new pair every season, ranging from the £50 high street pair to the £250 designer pair. Black patent wedge ankle boots à la Stella McCartney for shopping trips to New York, mustard peep-toe wedges for strutting down sunny Parisian boulevards and navy suede lace-up wedge shoes for London City chic. From spring to winter, there is a wedge to fit all.

To drink or not to drink

I don't drink.

This is a statement I have repeated on many an occasion, be it at a works do, a birthday party or just a regular night out with friends. And 99% of the time I am met with the same puzzled look of bewilderment followed up by the assumption that there must be some great reason as to why this is: allergies, religious reasons, pregnancy... But the simple truth is that I just don't like it very much.



My mother was never strict about my exposure to alcohol, and from a young age allowed me to try (in moderation of course) the adult tastes she felt I should experience. Pre-teen years I was allowed a sip of Kiddush wine as part of the traditional Jewish occasions, from Friday night dinner to Rosh Hashanah (the new year celebrations) and as I matured I moved on to white wine spritzers, which were drunk in controlled environments - usually accompanied by dinner and my grandparents company. It is my belief that due to this freedom and lack of taboo surrounding alcohol, once I reached 'clubbing age', unlike my friends who were gasping for hangovers and experimental opportunities so long denied to them, I was not entranced by the A word.

I attended my high school prom at age 17 (the youngest in my year) and while my cohorts set up camp around the tiny bar, I enjoyed the evening dancing the night away. However, when I reached university, this hysteria reached a whole new level as friends claimed it impossible to endure a night out without the aid of copious amounts of alcohol. There followed an almost competitive push throughout student-ville as to who was nursing the worst hangover the morning after and what embarrassing antics they had participated in while enjoying their drunken stupor.

I admit, the few times I have made erroneous judgments on nights out and wished I could have blamed it on drunkenness, has not escaped me. However, I never felt the need to drink, I don't particularly enjoy the taste of most alcoholic drinks (though granted most don't - it is the affects they pursue over taste) and I really didn't want to part with my cash when I could be spending it on clothes and shoes.

Maybe it's because I am a bit of a control freak, maybe it's because I am mortally afraid of alcohol-fuelled ventures resulting in me lying on the floor flashing the entire population of central London on a Saturday night, maybe I've smelled too many wine and beer-breathed peers to risk subjecting myself to it, or maybe it's because on the few occasions I've drunk alcohol it's just run right through me...

I'm also one of those rare freaks who doesn't drink coffee. Yes, I know your mouths must be on the proverbial floor, but please do pick them up again. My reason - I don't like it. And that's the basic truth - if I don't like something, I won't do it. Why should I? Just because everyone else is doing it? To avoid the judgement I face at a variety of occasions (including meeting someone for the obligatory 'coffee' in Starbucks or Costa)?

Last night was my work summer party, a sophisticated affair at the Kensington Roof Gardens. Conversations preceding the event were primarily punctuated by intentions of consuming vast amounts of alcohol and what would ensue later in the night as a result... I am not a party pooper, and I don't ever try to draw attention to my tee-total status - I silently drink my orange juice or water (yes water) and enjoy the night as much as everyone else. And, on little or no sleep, often feel as terrible as my hungover colleagues the following morning.

Essentially, everyone is free to drink or not, without judgement. But perhaps it would be interesting to step back and ask ourselves, why?

Talking bout Religion

The hubby and I spent half the weekend with family friends in order to experience a true Shabbat (the Jewish sabbath which runs from sunset on Friday evening to dark on Saturday night).



We arrived just before 7pm and shortly after, the men left for evening prayers at synagogue while the women remained at home. We had switched off our mobile phones and were shown which lights in the house would remain on and what time the rest would go off.

An hour later the menfolk returned and we all sat down for a delicious dinner consituting of the traditional Friday night dinner menu: chopped liver, egg & onion and Challa (traditional plaited bread) to start, followed by Chicken soup, then the main dish of roasted chicken, roast potatoes, an array of vegetables and so on and then to finish up our hostess presented us with a selection of desserts, from homemade tiramisu to fresh fruit salad. And as if this wasn't enough, coffee, tea and chocolates were brought out afterwards.

Dinner (or the banquet as it should more aptly be referred to) was followed by lively conversation in the family room, before we finally retired to sleep well past midnight.

At 8am the next morning, we were awoken as our host let us know it was almost time for the morning service at synagogue. An interesting point, of which I was not formerly aware, is that showering is not officially allowed during Shabbat. As an obsessive showerer, I had one but my husband chose to follow it by the book and thus had me prodding him every half an hour asking if now he wanted to have a shower?? The answer was irrefutably, no.

I opted to stay at home with our hosts' daughter while the others attended the 3-hour morning service. I read my book and several magazines and chatted about everything from cakes and dieting to celebrities and work.

On the others return we sat down for kiddush (a custom by which prayers are made over wine). Two other guests had been invited for lunch so we all chatted about life. The interesting thing about listening to the theme of conversation in a religious household is that more often than not (particularly on Shabbat) it will centre on issues key to the religion. From what the rabbi discussed in his sermon that morning to the differing topics highlighted in the variety of Jewish newspapers (The Jewish News, The Jewish Chronicle, The Tribune, Hamodia etc) and of course, a favourite amongst Jewish mothers - what they're children are up to, particularly if it's impressively good!!

Then before we sat down for lunch, it is customary to wash hands, and then remain silent until the prayer over the Challa (bread) is made and we have all taken a piece. Again, lunch was a foodie affair with a selection of cold meats, salads and bread, followed by several desserts.

The guests left after lunch, and as is also typical of a Shabbat afternoon went home for a sleep, which my husband also chose to participate in. Although I was incredibly tired - having not slept particularly well and woken early - I decided to stay up and read my book... which I did for the next four hours (in addition to Vogue, In Style and Grazia!!)

We all sat in the family room and chatted, drank tea, ate cake and After Eights and read and slept. At about 9pm the men returned to synagogue for closing prayers and on their return at 10.30pm we did Havdalah - a brief ceremonial service comprising wine, spices and the lighting of a candle, which symbolises the ending of the sabbath and the drawing in of a new week. In the summer, Shabbat goes out exceptionally late due to the days remaining lighter later.

It was a strange experience to just completely relax and do not very much at all, and oddly I now feel more tired than if I had gone about my usual weekend activities... the people we met swear by the restorative benefits of their relaxed Shabbat, saying it sets them up for the rest of the week. I guess it depends on what you're used to and what your body's used to. I think if it's used to activity and stimulation, then depriving it of those things can wear it out from lack of use. I would have liked to have gone for a walk however there wasn't the opportunity - prehaps that would have made me feel differently.

Overall, it was a good experience but unusual. I enjoyed the absence of TV, mobile phones and other technological distractions but I must have my shower!!

Body Talk

We are bombarded on a daily basis with 'new' treatments, diets and exercise plans all promising to tone, carve and mould our bodies into beautiful submission. In the lead-up to my wedding, words like 'Scarsdale Diet' and 'Weight Watchers' were thrown around, and that was just by my bridesmaids terrified of not looking their best and it wasn't even their big day.

Beautiful models and glamorous, slender movie stars were put on this earth, we are certain, in order to show us what could be achieved (via extravagent sums spent on a personal trainer, private chef, hairdresser, stylist and make-up artist), but an ideal that will always remain just out of reach to the vast majority.

It doesn't matter how much I yearn to look like Scarlett Johansson, the likelihood is I just won't - I like food too damn much!

I drink copious amounts of water and green and white tea, I exercise 4-5 times a week and I moisturise my skin twice a day. I've tried the lemon and maple syrup detox, the Alli weight loss pill and not eating carbs after 5pm, and they all worked for the brief period I allowed them into my daily routine - but I like chocolate, and chips, and meat, and pasta, and pizza (I could go on). Don't get me wrong, I am not the size of a small house, but I'm not a size 'Jennifer Aniston' either. I'm an average 12-14 female who occasionally struggles into her jeans, holds in her tummy when it's eaten just that bit too much and has 'fat days'...

So, what's the answer? Believe me, I do not eat the items listed above regularly and my pasta is wholewheat. But fad diets and celebrity health 'experts' inform us that to really lose weight, the key is to cut these foodstuffs out of our lives completely and I just don't want to.

Moderation. Moderation. Moderation.
The mantra drummed into me by my mother from a very young age and one that should be applied to every area in life, in my opinion. That and having the willpower to withstand cravings, the patience to prepare your own healthy lunches and resist the 3.30pm urge to run to the corner shop for a Bounty... it's hard.

I realise this may be the rantings of a fat woman, but really this is the stream of consciousness that most likely scrolls through the mind of nearly every woman on a daily basis. The best we can do is fill up our water bottles, stock up on green tea, exercise regularly and take it one day at a time. Step by step...

Today, I started the day with a vitamin C drink and two pitta breads with peanut butter (not fantastically healthy but peanut butter is slow releasing, it wasn't lathered on and I haven't snacked yet and don't intend to). I have two bottles of cold water on my desk, no coffee (don't drink the stuff) and my lunch is in the fridge - wholewheat pasta with pesto, preprepared last night. I don't plan to eat again until dinner time, which will involve a roasted chicken, boiled potatoes and broccoli.

I will let you know if I was successful, and whether this approach to food can help you shed the pounds.