Strange things have been afoot in my part of London town. Walking into work one morning near Warren Street, I spied a killer heel lying prone on the pavement. It looked sad and pathetic with all its power gone. Basically it had lost its sole, and everything else - just a heel on its own with no purpose in life. I almost felt sorry for it.
Then the next evening in Brixton as I was on my way to buy some port, a bottle of WKD, and a packet of Drum light (for a friend), I caught sight of a lady limping just ahead of me. As I got closer (well, she was pretty easy to catch up), I saw the reason behind her hobble. She'd lost the killer heel to her shoe. I thought for a second that I should tell her to take a trip to Warren Street, but I found the whole spectacle of her dolled up in her best clobber, hopping away from the club Plan B (I reckon plan C included a cup of cocoa, a fatty boom batty and a pair of slippers) and trying to avoid the pebble dash puke on the pavement with one naked foot, far too amusing to interrupt.
Next time I passed the spot where the heel was, it'd gone. Only to be replaced by some killer dog shit.
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