Big Feet Bigger Problem,

Just when you think you have come to term with your bodies proportions the high street comes along and throws a spanner in the works.
I have, since the age of 13, had size 9 feet. Thankfully they are not out of proportion with my 5ft10" frame, but they are far to big for the British high street. Whilst most places will stock up to an 8 in all styles and a 9 in some of the less desirable ones; not one high street store has its entire collection ranging up to a 9. Apparently this tyranny effects only 8% of our female population...and a seriously pissed off 8% we are.
All I want this season is a pair of brown Oxford Brogues, hell I'll even settle for black. I just do not want to spend another summer larking about in my interchangeable summer foot-drobe of converse and flip flops.
When I was 13 this was never a problem. I located myself a pair of suitably gaudy trainers and wore them till they broke. They were then promptly replaced with another pair. I still have the same pair I wore for U14's netball practise. I felt cool back then but now I am sure the rest of boxercise can see a cheeky flash of sport sock peeping from between the seductive aerated curtain of my 2004 Adidas Clima Cools.
I cannot contain my excitment when a shoe trend is bisexual. By which I mean worn by both genders. I love my converse (even though I slated them earlier) and still remember the day I bought my pink high tops; for once in my life I had a shoe that was seen on the foot of the female celebs, well, Hilary duff on the poster for "A Cinderella Story". My high tops too could perhaps peek sexily out from underneath an over zealous prom dress whilst I seductively straddled the back of Chad Michael Murray. Or not.
My current boot of choice, The Doc Marten, is also a bi-trend; which is completely fantastic as yet again my feet are clad in a fashionfootfriendly number.....though admittedly not the chicest of shoe. My brothers try hard to prevent themselves being violently sick on them every time i put my feet on the sofa. They're also not a hit with the lads; men may want a confident and domineering woman but they don't all want someone who looks fresh off the set of "this is England" with an attitude to boot.
I have spent the past 48hrs frantically searching the web for a pair of brogues. They are men's shoes for god sake, stock them in a 9 Office! I have found some shoes in a 9. Alas, they are the kind my grandmother would be embarrassed to be seen in and we are talking about a women who has gold trainers by Ecco, you do the math.
Fearne Cotton and Aldo are my only solace. In fact, Cotton has a pair on the Littlewoods website that almost hit the spot. Shame they are white: big feet, white shoes, a formidable combination. La Redoute has also made an attempt to be BFG (big footed girl) friendly, but sadly none of their flats would be acceptable on the foot of anyone other than a blind, middle aged, misguided, maths teacher. A bit harsh, but when to my disappointment I found their version of a 42 was a UK 8 they were asking for it.
I have resigned myself to Ebay, tirelessly searching the mens shoe sections, typing as many syntactical variations of, brown, oxford, brogue, 42, as you can think of. It is sadly my only option aside from binding my feet and I am not one who believes in that whole "beauty is pain" malark.
I am not asking for much, just one size more. I am more than content to push my foot, ugly sister-style, into a size 8 if i feel the wearing in period won't outlive a week but sometimes I just wish asking for the next size up was met with a yes rather than: a "sorry This is our largest size", or "You could look on our website" or the dreaded "Some of our mens shoes are similar".
Maybe one day the great British high street will answer my call and me and the other 8% of size 8+ women will no longer be confined to peep toes, sandals, and stretchy flats but shall roam free in that Utopic world of perfect pumps and well fitting brown Oxford brogues.
You know what they say about women with big feet?
Big problem.

Modern (f)art.

Every once in a while I take a day out of my hectic schedule of oversleeping, overeating, overwatching, and underworking to do something worthwhile. Being a student often the closest I come to culture is the kind that I find growing on my half finished tin of heinz meanzest beanz in the fridge. Sometimes however I feel that since I am an Arts student I should indulge my inner Pater and go out and get all introspective, existential and nonsensical over art.

The Tate Modern seemed like a good place to start. Firstly, I knew it quite well, secondly, it was free (the piece de resistance for any "sensible" student) and thirdly, I lived in hope that there'd be something really grotesque or obscene around every corner.

Aside from the room full with the TV that had the antics of a self harmer on loop there wasn't much that caught my eye. They didn't even have that obscene video I saw on my first visit: a naked man doing ballet. I hear it was a retaliation against years of female oppression in art. Deep. But lets be honest, No one wants to watch tackle do the tango.

Modern art has always confused me a little. I enjoy its impact but rarely admire its artistry. A signed urinal, some red canvases, a poo in a box (even I could do that!).

But the other day something caught my art-eye. Mauricio Velasquez Posada is makes garments out of paper. Its like a wacky, large, wearable origami. Breathtaking, bizarre and highly flammable. The fold and spikes drown his models. They are left standing arms and legs akimbo looking like the love child of Vivienne Westwood and a paper shredder. I am not sure where the future of the pieces lie, since you could never wear them (they aren't your typical threads) and you could never display them as art (they don't hang and I'm imagining would not fit in any modest house hold). I find it difficult to see where their future is. But perhaps their transient nature is what all modern art is about: completely impracticability in favour of making the absolute statement. Or perhaps all this modern art fart has started to have a bit of an effect on my thinking......

Going Pell Mell.

And in the beginning there was a blog, and he saw that is was reasonable and declared that it would be average and called it Pell Mell.

Well She, not he. And why "Pell Mell"? Well we can never fully know her motives but I can divulge this much; after spending many hours deliberating (a word coined from America's Next Top Model) and, to be frank, pissing about on dictionary.com, it was decided that "pell mell " had a certain ring to it. A bit more jingly than "Harum Scarum" which would you believe was also an option. Not only does Pell Mell have the jangle it also does the business, by which I mean highlights the mood of this blog. A little Haphazard at the best of times.