Here's a secret about me:

I love shoes.

No, you're right. That wasn't much of a secret. Let me try again.

I love buying shoes. I love having shoes. I love looking at the shoes that I have. I love putting them on, even when I'm in my PJs, just to see them on my feet. And then, more often than not, I place them carefully back into their box, cover them with the store tissue paper and pop them back into my closet.

You wouldn't think I was such a Bradshaw by looking at me. Most days I wear a variety of ballet flats or sandals, or flat boots in winter. But there's something about a beautiful pair of shoes that makes me feel like the world could be a better place. I pretty much only get my heels out for special occasions (which is a travesty I know).

I still have a favourite old pair of seriously pointy pumps that I wore relentlessly in 2005, will never wear again, but cannot bear to part with. I have a pair of hot pink satin peep-toes from Nine West that I've worn once. I have vintage black satin cutaways with bronze polka dot bows that I've never worn outside of the house because they are the wrong size but I could not leave them in the shop regardless. And that's only the beginnings. I think I may have a bit of a problem.

But anyway ... here's the pair I'm lusting after at the moment.

They're called Chelsea. (That's the name the store gave them, not me. What kind of weirdo do you think I am?)