Sinister: Put on your hi heel sneakers

[figure2 at xxx.net]

Vilkas talks passionately about 'sneakers'. I'm from the UK and call them trainers. But thanks for that, Viklas, because I'm currently wearing some polisheable all-black leather 'sneakers' from Jones the bootmakers (their description, not mine). They're functional and go with your average smart-casual boring bloke look, but I am reminded of some 'sneakers' I have that just might still be in the wardrobe. Brb... 
YES!! 
I bought these in London a few years ago and happily smiled as the other pedestrians in Oxford Street stopped to stare at my shocking shods [? could that be a valid noun (in plural form)?].
At the junction of Little Portland Street and Great Titchfield Street none other than the most famous living British architect put the brakes on his Porsche Boxster to take a glance. Maybe it was for the benefit of his young son who was in the passenger seat at the time, since Lord_ was still in his 'grey' period back then (although back in the 70's primaries yellow, green and blue were to be found adorning the metal tubes of his hi-tech envelopes: perhaps it was a moment of nostalgia).
I shall put them on.
Ah... comfy. I'm going for a short walk to enjoy the springyness again, for which I need a hard surface. Paving slabs in the garden will have to suffice because, although the scenery up here is lovely, this is very much 'the sticks' and there are construction workers lurking around out on the street, ostensibly repairing its surface but generally eating sandwiches and communicating with geo-stationary spacecraft via a complex and shifting semaphore of traffic cones in formations which seem to present no more obvious purpose... but I digress.
Back in five minutes.
I'm panting now. I jogged across as many paving slabs as I could find, then over the little circular ones set in a wavy line across a lawn which forces you into a kind of crazy hop-scotch then up past four stunted apple trees (their height diminishes as the topsoil gets thinner) then a circuit of a small patch of birchwood at the top, setting off some wind-chimes as I thunder 'round somewhat inelegantly. It's not a big garden by any means, but there are several of 'bits' to it. Back down, a few more jumps (boy these things are bouncy!) and in the door again.
They're called 'Falcon' by Adidas, and I think they're aimed at the children's market. I was 27 when I bought them and I'm 31 now. They're in fluorescent orange, with wee bits of blue and yellow. The soles are bright orange and yellow. They remain so after some four years as, for obvious reasons, I've hardly worn them. If I were a sporting man they'd probably be knackered by now, of course.

I think I'll skip the porn bit, except to say that 'porno-chic' isn't really porn. I'll try to avoid sounding like I have the first clue about 'cultural studies' (because I don't: I haven't even read Baudrillard), but fashion appropriates the fringes (bdum! eek)  of culture all the time, be it art or porn or political radicalism to give it a cutting edge (bdum! bdum! shoot me): to make fashion *interesting* because the mainstream gets *boring*. Rarely do fashionable trends have any more than a tangential reference to the content of the subjects they pertain to align themselves with. For example, in *real* porn, people *actually get turned on by it*. In it's more bizzare forms, the rest of us can just enjoy a good giggle, or a feeling of lofty bohemian tolerance.

Talking of which, I'm going to remove these trainers now, because I'm going to kiss them.
I may be some time...

;-)

Gordon


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