I have bought boots.
I had been thinking of red cowboy boots, but I went with these instead. It was a timing issue. My old blue ones fell apart and leaked. They were starting to feel like a metaphor for everything. I hated stepping in puddles in those boots. Needs must.
Besides which, I'd been harbouring this image of myself striding capably and happily away from my messy life and across the moors in my boots, my dog lolloping along beside me.
The fact I live nowhere near moors, get itchy legs when I stride, and don't have a dog (yet) notwithstanding.
But, you know, they're French so they must imbue me with some kind of inherent Frenchness. Mais, oui.
One day, I'll maybe go to France and my entire illusion about the prevalence of street cafes and lanky sophistication across all industries will be shattered. In the meantime, I'll tell you a secret: I have a crush on France. Don't tell France. That would just be embarrassing.
I also have a crush on my French boots. I imagine fashionable Parisians molding them lovingly in street-side cafes, sipping cafe au laits while they work diligently on boot construction.
Maybe they were really made in some horrific factory by underpaid immigrant workers, the kind of factory that would make me want to immediately blacklist the shop. I hope not. I don't want to think that. I want to think that Hand crafted in France implies something more positive than that. I want it to imply crusty bread and red wine. Croissants and long vacations. Not some corporate evil.
Reality can be so... depressing.
Fiction is so much better, don't you think?