My daughter was hunting through my bedroom closet when she let out a horrified cry.

“Mommy, where are your high heels?”

Then I knew I had to finally confess.

“Sweetheart, mummy doesn’t have any high heels.”

My girlie-girl’s mouth made an O.

Actually, it’s not strictly true that I don’t have any heels. I do have a few pairs, along with other types of shoes, but they are all thrown into a dark, cobwebby corner. My feet are weird shapes and I have an unhappy, painful relationship with any kind of shoe other than sneakers. When I find a pair of shoes I can live with I cling to them.

This winter my old, comfortable boots emerged from summer hibernation with large chunks missing.

After a fruitless search around town, I thought I’d just order the same pair online. While I was ordering them, I saw a lovely pair of strapped shiny black (flat) shoes.

They were the same brand as my boots so what could go wrong?

When they arrived in the mail, I trooped up and down the hall. The feeling was distinctly meh.

Maybe I would try to wear them, maybe I would toss them into the naughty shoe corner and forget about them. I left them by the front door.

A couple of hours later, I opened the front door and was surprised to find my new shoes sitting out there in the dark. What the heck were they doing out there?

The culprit soon emerged, my seven-year-old.

“I was trying out your shoes,” my daughter said. “Outside.”

She looked guilty.

“Why are they outside?” I said suspiciously.

“Um, I may have stood in dog dirt while I was out there.”

“Dog dirt? I’ve only had them a couple of hours.”

She said: “Don’t worry though, I wiped them off.”

I picked up the shoes. They were definitely whiffy.

The sole had this gridiron pattern which meant the nasty stuff was packed in there. As I scrubbed them off, before shoving in them in the corner I thought, well at least someone got some use out of them.