The Red Shoes

I didn't return to the house after the fire. I had no particular desire to do so, and one of my housemates was quite insistent that it wasn't a good idea considering how traumatised I was.

In the hours afterwards, my wonderful parents bombed down the motorway, driving from Wales to London. While I was at my ex-boyfriend's flat having been released from hospital, they went straight to the house to see what (if anything) could be salvaged.

My mum described how she saw, in the midst of my dark and blackened room, poking out of a corner and in pristine condition, a pair of red shoes.

I love the fact that these were one of the few items that withstood the fire, referring as they do (in my mind, at least) to The Red Shoes, one of Hans Christian Andersen's many moralistic tales depicting the terrible things that happen to women who think they have anything they want…

That my own red shoes survived is, to me, a wonderful sign that (despite Andersen's puritanical protestations) it IS alright to want what I want - a life of passion, abundance …

…and beautiful but impractical footwear…