She picked the shoes in pink with winding straps,
of wuthering height, impressive, so divine.
A sizzling date the reason why, perhaps
she picked the shoes.
Her expertise with heels was borderline.
Doc Martens were the norm, with tightened flaps.
She tottered upright, poise and balance fine
until the stroke of midnight brought collapse.
She blamed it on the Pinot Grigio wine.
‘Why me?’ she cries – two months in plaster wraps.
She picked the shoes.