The rock’s in the boots. (Who says men don’t notice shoes?)

Place: Empty pub, in the late afternoon.
Cast: Me [playing journalist], Very Tattooed Bar Guy.

Me: “…So do you think I could talk to the owner about this?”
Very Tattooed Bar Guy: “Yah sure.” [Comes round the bar and looks at my shoes] “Are you into rock?”
Me: “Uh?”
Very Tattooed Bar Guy: “Rock music?”
Me: “Yeah. Well, some of it. Why?”
Very Tattooed Bar Guy [pointing at my 11-year-old, scruffy black “the bloody hill is gonna freeze over again and I don’t have time to buy new shoes”-style winter boots]: “You dress like a rock chick.”

Never mind that I spent half the afternoon painting my nails black and blood red. The essence of my style apparently lies in the boots somebody gave me when I was a kid living in the middle of muddy nowhere.

Guess you could say I have a new favourite pair of shoes now.

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