If I had lots of money and time, I would buy boots.
I would buy black boots, dark brown boots, tan boots, burgundy boots, navy boots, grey boots. I would buy two-tone boots. I would buy some of those lovely boots that are black with a wide tan cuff round the top.
I would buy baggy boots, tight boots, straight boots, flared boots, zipped boots. They'd be ankle-high, knee-high, mid-calf, or over the knee. Thigh boots! I've never even tried on a pair of thigh boots! And ankle boots. Do you remember how we used to call them "pixie" boots? I'd buy those.
I would buy plain boots, fancy boots, fur-lined boots, boots with elastic sections, boots with buckles, straps, buttons, or laces. I would buy cowgirl boots, yes, to remind me of my years in the Midwest. I would buy high-heeled boots, stiletto boots, kitten heels, wedges, low heeled boots, and maybe even, in a moment of generous inclusivity, Uggs. I would buy leather boots, suede boots, imitation boots, plastic boots, and rubber boots. For let's not forget WELLIES.
I would buy many pairs of wellies. I would buy posh wellies, green ones with buckles, with a brand label that says something to people who know these things. I would buy tartan wellies and spotty wellies. I would buy girlie, flowery wellies (does Cath Kidston do them, or better still, Gisela Graham?). I would buy wellie socks, and send a congratulations card to the brilliant person who invented them.
I would buy cheap boots, expensive boots, classy boots, fun boots. Boots that are chunky and statementy - Doc Martens perhaps. Boots that are elegant and refined, and say "die for me" - Russell and Bromley, or Carvela. I would buy plenty of boots made in Italy. I would even buy CFM boots, because when I was young, a friend pointed some out to me. Having no access to Urban Dictionary on the internet, I had to suffer the ignominy of asking her what the initials stood for. High time I had some of my own!
I would move to Woking in Surrey, telling all my friends, "these boots were made for Woking". I would build an extension to the house: the Boot Space. Then I would line up all my boots, and wander carefully along the shelving areas every morning, asking "Hm... Which of you lovely boots shall I wear today?" I'd walk up and down the rows, running my hand over their shiny toes, taking down the ones that caught my eye, cradling them, and softly stroking their rounded shapes.
Then I'd have to employ someone to do all the polishing, and brushing, because my boots would have to live their lives in mint condition. They would have to have proper boot-stretchers for the calves and for the feet, so that they would hold their beautiful forms when my own calves and my own feet were not in them. I'd have to employ someone else to dust them, because I would have so many that I wouldn't get round to wearing each pair more than a few times a year. I think the Duster would have to be someone who would also talk to them, so they didn't get lonely. "Just look at your beautiful chestnut tones!" she would say (for surely, it would be a woman, even if the job was openly and fairly advertised). "How smooth your suedey sides are!" "You're so burnished, I could light a match just by putting it against your glowing toes."
Can you guess what's on my Christmas list?
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