Last night, around 2am, I suddenly announced, half asleep, that I needed a pair of Bowie trainers. Needed. The boyfriend, more than used to this sort of extreme behaviour did little more than sigh and roll over while I settled into dreams of prancing around in a sensible wedged trainer.
I haven't forgotten about them this morning. In fact, the first thing I did after breakfast was log on to ASOS to see what the deal was with stock and sizes. They are, of course, sold out. Not to mention they're £150. But we'll deal with that later.
They may be the poor-girls' version of the Willow, but I think I love them more. Part 80s high top, part club-foot, they'll add an edge to my wardrobe I feel it's somewhat lacking in right now (tailored coat, jumper, jeans, shoes...yawn. Throw in a wedge trainer and BAM, that's practically my dream outfit.) (Should probably make the jeans leather though) AND they look even better when they've been through the wars a bit. Which is good, because my belongings have seen enough battles to ply generations of grandchildren with horror stories.
So, somehow, I'm going to get a pair. Maybe if I get everyone on Facebook to give me 50p or something, or I'll write to Ash and ask if they need any dishes washing. I asked Sam if I could sell his Ray-Bans or his laptop for the trainer fund. He said no, selfish man. Basically the only question that remains is which colour I'm going to get...
source - theyallhateus, googleimages, lovelybylucy