I Need A Valet

Don't look at me: I'm hideous!

Having arrived at work, breakfasted and abluted, I was finally ready for the day when, looking down, I realised that: I AM WEARING THE WRONG SHOES FOR MY ENSEMBLE!

Wearing dark brown trousers with a prussian blue polo shirt was just about right. They shouldn't work, but to the discerning eye they do! But why oh why oh why did I put on my LIGHT TAN SHOES? You know, the Italian hand-made pair I bought in the store opposite MOMA in New York? Well, they look ORANGE against this outfit, it's just WRONG, and I'm stuck at work for a whole DAY for people to snigger at me behind their hands.

Frankly, I look like I'm attending an interview at the Circus.

I shouldn't be in this position, I certainly should not be allowed to make such important decisions before 10.00am. Christ, even Churchill stayed in bed 'til midday.
I need a valet. I need someone to lay my clothes out for me in the morning whilst I shuffle around the house trying to remember where the bathroom is.
In fact, when I finally get my act together and get that blockbuster in the bookstores, the first thing I'll get is a valet! (Where does one get a valet? Ask a homosexual I suppose,)

Meanwhile, back at work, the obvious thing to do is to stay behind my desk all day with my offending feet out of sight. But I can't! My desk faces the wall! When people come to see me I do a rather fetching swish around on my swivel chair, and address them with my desk at my back. I suppose I could pretend that I was really busy with something really important all day, keeping my back to visitors, but that would be so uncharacteristically RUDE!

Taking the shoes off is out of the question. I'm not an ALBANIAN PEASANT for god's sake. And no-one's going to by the rustic look in January anyway.

I could sneak out and buy some more suitable shoes, but apart from the fact that I can't afford it, and that my partner has threatened to leave if I ever buy any more shoes ("who needs that many shoes? Who are you? Imelda Marcos?), I couldn't bear the expression on the shop assistant's face when they observe that I have committed a grave error of judgement. And we all know that they're the type of person who uses that kind of thing against you.

I had thought of sacrificing my otherwise exquisite tan shoes with the aid of the enormous felt-tip pen we use for the flip charts, but I just can't bring myself to such cruelty.

There's no choice but to forgo lunch, cancel my appointments and close the door to my office with the "Meeting In Progress" sign up.

Sometimes I wonder if people realise who the REAL victims are these days.