Big Foot 
 

When I arrived in France I quickly realised that there was one thing that I would never ever be able to do here. I might take a lover, take the nationality or take a liking to oysters (eeuch) but I will never be able to buy pretty shoes here. I can walk into any shoe shop selling dainty delicate, beautiful shoes and ask a question that makes eyes goggle and leap downwards. Does that come in 42-43? 

More polite people will go and look, and at least flatter my ego by being vaguely apologetic. However, this is France and polite people don’t work in shops. The usual response ranges from – “We don’t sell men’s shoes” to “Are you sure your feet are that big” to “No” followed by long stares at my feet. They don’t look that big compared to the rest of me. It’s not that I’m super tall but my 5ft 8 or 1,72 is gigantic compared to the average teeny French woman. This at least gives me the superiority that comes with height but Frenchie pixie women are very good at making their egos twice as tall as they are – so they can look me in the eye with the Gallic scorn reserved for people who are different. 

Every so often I see if things have changed. Once I had the delight of going into a Lafite in Montpellier, asking to see what they had in 42 and being presented with a choice of 3, that’s THREE different pairs of shoes– 2 sorts of Birkenstock sandals (even one with flowers) and 1 pair of delicate little pumps. Being very pregnant and very surprised I bought them all. The next time I looked the shop had been burned down. An electrical fault was the public explanation, but I’m certain it was the work of the Pixie Feet People; dedicated to keeping Yeti-women out of France. 

Recently I’d just been thrown out of the Camper shop for being a Sasquatch (I love Camper shoes – please gods of Camper, make them in big-foot size) and Aerosole offered a low budget alternative. But I was confused by the numbers. There were piles of boxes with numbers like 3 and 2 on the side. This just didn’t seem to work in either the European (42-43) or UK (8-9) systems I know. Yet there were grown women trying these things on. With no pain, no shoe horns and no amputated toes. Slowly it dawned on me – and it was slow – these woman had tiny tiny size 3 feet. Don’t they fall over all the time. Don’t they get stuck in between the slots on escalators? Clearly not. These were just normal little old French women. Maybe all that non-pasteurised cheese stunts your growth. It sure as hell doesn’t make them fat so it must have some negative consequences – please. The rather nice assistant offered me the choice of 3 shoes; they all would have been fine if I liked wearing shoes only the dowdiest of dead nuns would wear. They were so ugly that she didn’t even seem surprised when I said no. 

I am preparing my daughters for Big Foot future. When I tell the story of Cinderella I make it very clear that the glass slipper is actually magic. Ol’ Cinders has rather large feet – just like Mummy – but only she can wear the enchanted shoes. So far the girls believe me. Just wait until they have to buy their own shoes for the ball and there’s no Fairy Godmother waiting to turn those Birkenstocks into party pumps… Help Help, there’s a Yeti