Vicky Ewan: Struggle of walking in high heels

Of my (many, many) regrets in life, I truly deplore my inability to walk elegantly in high heels.

Actually, scratch that - I deplore my inability to walk in high heels at all; that skill seems to have passed me by, to my eternal disappointment.

In real life and on television, I regularly observe countless women striding along at vertiginous heights, poise and power punctuating every step. Others trip along stylishly, the straps of their steep sandals snaking fetchingly around their ankles; I regard them all with a forlorn envy.

I suspect it may be a genetic indisposition: I cannot ever recall seeing my mum wearing a shoe of any kind of height; perhaps she, too, lacked the necessary physical aplomb. My mum was a lofty lady in her prime, and I sense that an element of her decision to shun a soaring shoe was due to her reluctance to become taller than she already was.

She did, however, have a penchant for footwear, and was exacting about sizing and style. Being of slender foot, she struggled to locate a snug fit, and was often frustrated by the lack of choice in conventional shops. She favoured a smart loafer - leather, of course - perhaps one adorned with a subtle tassel or discreet bow; flamboyance was not her style. She preferred a slip-on, though she had no aversion to either buckle or lace - or zip, when it came to a pair of knee-high boots for the winter.

Navy blue was predominantly her colour of choice, though black figured frequently over the years and there was the occasional sally into paler-toned territory should occasion suggest it - for a family celebration or other social event, perhaps.

In honour of my brother's wedding four years ago, she managed to lay her hands on (or, rather, feet into) a pretty pair of strappy sandals, white leather with brightly-hued flowers scattered across the toe - and, naturally, a modest heel: a sage choice.

I remember my younger daughter, who was resplendent that day in black patent leather spiky heels to match her striking black and white-striped dress, teetering along the road between the ceremony and reception stages, clutching my arm in tragi-comic agony, bemoaning the state of her feet and enunciating the express desire to remove the tortuous devices as soon as possible.

Surfing a tide of happiness, I could not empathise; despite sporting elevated footwear myself, my euphoria inured me to any negative sensation. Indeed, so oblivious was I that I was nonchalant in my decision to don the same pair for a night on the tiles a few weeks later, convinced of their comfort.

Alas, by the time the hour had grown late enough for me to hit the floor, I was good for nothing but sitting down: I couldn't bear to spend another second on the burning balls of my feet, which were begging me for either reprieve or excision.

I don't consider myself to have a low pain threshold, but I will readily admit that walking on sore feet is something I am never willing to accommodate.

My younger daughter turned 18 last year, and we arranged a family dinner in a smart restaurant. Possessing no shoes suitable for such an auspicious gathering, I indulged in a shiny pair of killer heels, determined to rise to the occasion.

When the evening arrived, despite multiple practice sessions in the privacy of my home, I fared no better than usual, stumbling along behind the rest of the party and negotiating a winding staircase with flushed ineptitude.

Similar festivities have seen me clinging for dear life to my long-suffering husband, should he be present, the grimaces playing across my face betraying my discomfort with every agonising step. And it's not just the physical pain that hampers me: my gait suffers a vicious metamorphosis should the merest hint of a slender heel surface.

Shod in anything other than a chunky platform, I lose the ability to distribute weight evenly across my foot, with the result that, on more than one occasion, my heel has skidded out from under me and nearly sent me flying; only a desperate flail or the solid bulwark of my husband's frame has been enough to right me.

I would like to assert that my shortcomings are not for the lack of trying; in vain have I marched round the bedroom at home, determined to conquer my inadequacies! In vain have I chanted, silently, "heel FIRST, heel FIRST" with each step along the road. I may stay upright, but I cannot imagine I maintain any semblance of the suave sophistication I so long to convey.

How do other people do it? How do they conquer the dual agony and risk of elevated footwear? I only wish I knew.

My daughters, who rarely slip into high heels, can offer little consolation. Their younger brother, however, has taken a fancy to my slinkiest pair, and will strut around his bedroom in them with enviable ease; I sense he was born with the essential heel-wearing genes that I so sadly lack. At his last fitting, he was only one size smaller than me, and I suspect he may catch up this year. Ah well; if the shoe fits...