In my (expensive) shoes

This really is NOT meant to be a narcissistic platform for waxing lyrical on the transforming power of regular visits to the hairdresser and expensive shoes. However, with an ego as fragile as mine, I feel duty bound to share yet another uplifting encounter with an Irish male.
Last night, I enjoyed a wonderful meal with a very dear girlfriend and wore THE shoes. We went to a bar afterwards for a drink - I’m almost certain that it was the first time I’d bought drinks in a pub in Euros, the last being when Irish people still spend punts - that’s how long it is since I’ve been out on the town. Quietly sipping our drinks and discussing the lovely wallpaper – seriously it was lovely – a strange man in his late forties or early fifties politely interrupted us to tell me that I had the nicest legs in town and he just wanted to tell me that. That’s all he said and off he went back to his pals at the bar. I mean you couldn’t make it up. Thirty-six years I’ve waited for that compliment, however hyperbolic, and all it took was a pair of very expensive shoes, which I now believe to have been worth every Euro they cost.

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