Sustained Criticism

I don't know what's gotten into me, I'm posting like a mad. Perhaps I'm making up for the up-coming London induced absence. I've been drooling all over flat, knee-high leather boots the past two years. But I've been sensible, and not bought any until now. As a matter of fact, I haven't bought any shoes – except for the blue, bejeweled sandals from Karen Millen – for months and months. I've worked up a shoe credit. We stopped by to see if they had anything fun, and I saw the back of one of the most stunning dresses yet. Low-cut (back cleavage is almost as wonderful as collarbone cleavage) in the back, with criss-crossing straps. Please, deity, let it be on sale in London.

The boots are of the most perfect, buttery, supple brown leather (the clerk assured us it was Italian, glove-quality). The tops fold down, with a split back over a strap and a band of elastic that run the length of the shaft, making for a snug fit. They're slightly pointed, not quite an almond toe, and make my feet look graceful. Non-pointed flats usually make my feet look so big and unseemly, these do not. I love, love, love them.

We promised we'd let the Breeder, Wenche atKennel elfrema show Anton when we bought him. And we owe it to her: she named him Elfrema's Jewel, and has been incredible for over ten years. We agreed to take him to a show in early February, I think. I'm terrified. And I have to teach him to stand correctly.

Did I mention I tried to read Naipaul's Miguel Street? I gave up. It's a book of semi-connected short stories, written early on in his career. They all start the same way, and have this far been largely uninteresting. I fished Woolf's "A Room of One's Own" out of my shelves, instead. It's brilliant.