Happy Feet

I travelled to Leeds today with a bulky briefcase. Inside were 5 sheets of paper and a pair of shoes with heels. I changed as I entered the building where I was participating in a business meeting for a charity that I am a trustee of. It's a well rehearsed procedure on my part, implemented years ago when I discovered that walking from car parks and stations across towns and cities to courts and appointment venues, really couldn't be managed in anything that wasn't comfortable and as my feet aged, the definition of what was comfortable changed with them. In fact if I'd worked much longer, I would quite possibly have been spotted eventually sprinting along the footpath in carpet slippers; you know the kind: corduroy, a dull pattern and fur across the top in a total mismatch of colour. Fortunately I did the decent thing and retired before my lack of fashion sense became a total embarrassment.

Today it was reported that a London receptionist had been sent home from work for failing to wear high-heels. The poor woman had been expected to don heels of between 2 and 4 inches whilst spending her day conveying clients to meeting rooms. Now the Internet is ablaze with righteous indignation at the treatment of women in the workplace; why should the female office worker be obliged to put the long-term health of her feet at risk for an outdated dress policy?

I recall working in firms where women were not allowed to wear trousers although at some point in the 1980's rules were relaxed and an element of equality in the dress code was introduced although sadly it doesn't seem to have extended to below the knees. Well I know one thing for sure, if men were to be forced to totter around an office in stilettos for even half an hour there would be a very quick change of policy.

Here on Planet Retirement, of course, and save for rare trips to Leeds I have no such problems. Almost the reverse, as having always worn slippers in the house I continued that habit in retirement only to find that they can be equally as bad if worn for hours on end; clearly feet require more support than a pair of sheepskin mules can offer. I have now reached a happy compromise that will have bunion-endowed receptionists in central London drooling with envy: during the day I wear flat shoes with moulded insoles to prevent my instep from collapsing.

You see, feet love retirement too and there's no overbearing employer threatening to sack you if you don't comply with an outmoded and sexist shoe policy.