Sally

Boldy, she sallies forth in her new correspondents.  Daisy Buchanan shoes, Jay Gatsby's unattainable dream.  Personally, I blame the parents.  Just what was she thinking, taking me to the Blahnik sale aged, ooh, 12? 13?  I fell in love, but came home empty-handed.  And all that autumn term, I hid my Kickers under the desk, avoiding Mrs Flashman's fines for subversive footwear.  She couldn't quite say why they were wrong - they were flat, sensible, after all.  Just not Mary Jane enough for the fee-paying world of Elstree.

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And all the while I refined my drawing technique:  bloody hated, loathed art classes.  My leaves refused to look like leaves, or flowers, flowers.  But I could draw my ideal shoe or a hostile horizon of trees if I only used straight lines, never a curve.  Well, it worked for me.  Could I be so bold in an art lesson?  Bah!  And so, these increasingly vertigious heels snuck onto the corners of files and worksheets, diagrams and revision notes (but never a sacred book, note).

And then I hit on decoupage.  Covered a file in Harpers & Queen and Vogue, thank you, my loyal inspirers.  I look at this file, over 30 years later:  nothing has changed.   The girl scout who loved James Bond; a certain ennui even then (O tempora!  O mores!);  a magpie selection of jewel colours and glimmer;  a touch of gardening;  only connect.  
Are our values fixed at birth?  Before?  They'll never change, will they?