Storytelling Sunday - Kicking up my heels

My little god-d,aughter was two in May and I asked my niece what I might be able to buy her for her present.  'Dressing Up shoes' she suggested without hestitation.  Little Sophie has reached the 'tottering around in Mummy's high heels' stage.  I found these Disney shoes in their own little carry case and they've been a great hit!

They gave me the inspiration for the story I will be telling this month.  About how my love for wearing my mum's shoes not only almost caused a fire and but also made my mum swear that she would never return to the island of Guernsey. 

We had gone to Guernsey as our first foray overseas, a long sea journey where my mum first discovered that she suffered from sea-sickness.  So Guernsey didn't get off to the best of starts.  We were staying in a bed and breakfast boarding house and were given a 2nd floor room.  Every evening after mum and dad had got me and my sister ready to go out for our evening meal, mum would get herself washed and dressed and while I was waiting I would parade around in her high heels.  Turns out, the floorboards weren't soundproofed and the people below us complained about the noise I would be making every evening.  This was the final nail in Guernsey's  coffin.  Mum said she would never return to a place where the people were so intolerant to little children.  And she never did.

But the shoe incident which got me into a great deal of trouble and nearly caused a fire happened much closer to home, actually it happened in our home to be accurate.  Mum had got fed up with me ruining her shoes as my dancing had become more boisterous and she thought I could either end up with a broken ankle or break one of the heels.  So dancing in stilettos was banned.  And we all know what happens when you tell a mischievous child not to do something don't we?  That's all they want to do.  So when mum got a new pair of shoes that were shiny and pretty and lovely,  I couldn't resist.  She went upstairs for something and I quietly took the box into the dining room and shut the door.  Removed the shoes from where they were nestling in their tissue paper and slipped them onto my feet.  Give or take about 6 shoe sizes, they fitted perfectly.  I tottered around, turning this way and that.  In my imagination, I was a contestant in Miss World.  I had my national costume on and I was ready to strut my stuff on the catwalk and do an amazing twirl in front of my imaginary audience.  The thing with brand new shoes is that the soles are very shiny.  Shiny and slippery.  I did my twirl, I lost my balance, my leg went up in the air and one of my mum's newest shoes, that she had not yet worn herself, flew off my foot - and into the flames of the fire.  I naturally burst into tears, screamed out loud - mum rushed into the room and was horrified to see me with one of her shoes on my left foot and even more horrified to see the other one melting nicely in the fire.  I was in big trouble.  More trouble than Guernsey had ever been in.  And I don't remember ever wearing my mum's shoes ever again.