A Pixie Revelation

I spend almost all of my lunch breaks just pottering around Lewes - popping into its many excellent charity shops, and such eccentric local institutions as Mays General Store, Bill’s and Tizz’s, where one can easily waste a good 20 minutes window shopping. Very occasionally, I will venture into one of the few *shock horror* high street shops that are actually a rarity here, where many of the businesses are, amazingly, still local and independent. Yesterday I was in one of the high street shoe shops, harbouring a vague notion about new boots (don’t get your hopes up Ant), when I was amused to discover that pixie boots are back in fashion. I can distinctly remember my first pair of these 80s classics, as it was also the year (1985 I think) when I discovered that Father Christmas was less flesh-and-blood actual being, more parentally-executed benevolent concept (or so it was rather sweetly explained to me by my kind and inventive mother). I discovered this because those much-coveted pixie boots (black suede, with tassels, oh yes), delivered as I thought by Santa, all the way from Lapland, had to be exchanged in a high street shoe shop in Eastbourne, thanks to my ever-expanding 10 year old feet. My suspicions had of course already been raised by playground rumours and an ever-developing sense of cynicism, but this was the moment when the penny finally dropped and I resigned myself to the disappointing truth. So I will always associate pixie boots with the end of childhood magic, and the beginning of rational adulthood. Rather ironic when you think about it.