The season is well under way and my thoughts, like many ladies of South West London, turn to Wimbledon. The organisers, in their infinite wisdom, employ many of them as drivers for the players – yet another marvellous opportunity to do a little something for the community – and one year I decided that this would be a selfless way to raise money for my charity of the moment. Yes, ladies, they actually pay you to swan around with the likes of Nadal in your passenger seat. An opportunity not to be missed even at the cost of having to wear a vile, mainly polyester outfit. Sartorially speaking, a suicidally low point.
The only area where there was any scope for self expression was in footwear – not really an area likely to appeal to men who had chosen to spend their waking lives in plimsolls however. And feet are not normally the first thing you notice about a driver and it strained even my vigorous imagination to think of a plausible reason to have my Manolos balanced on the dashboard – at least on a first drive.
Eventually I dispensed with footwear altogether. The stiletto heels kept getting wedged under the accelerator and what with the passengers’ screaming and the squeal of other drivers’ tyres it was almost impossible to hear my mobile phone.
One player did observe (in French) that driving without shoes was illegal in France (More EU interference) and I was able to reassure him (also in French) that it is permitted in England providing you’re not wearing socks – just like the rule for men in sandals.
All this reminds me of an unfortunate incident in my distant past when I spent a fortnight on a shoot working with a truly gorgeous director. (Not at ITN, obviously. I could never understand why television employed so many attractive women but only hired men in cardigans who smoked pipes and ignored us.) More than a little naively I asked the crew’s advice and the senior cameraman offered to ply the object of my attention with strong drink and report back.
‘He’s a foot fetishist’ he slurred. ‘Wear interesting shoes’.
Yet again a novice mistake. I spent the next two weeks tottering around in agony and heels that Naomi Campbell would have refused to wear, many of them borrowed from friends with variously sized feet. Every day the crew would award marks out of ten but from Mr Russell and Bromley – nothing.
Years later I met him at a drinks party and was surprised to discover that he remembered me. ‘Good memory’ I said, ‘I had no idea that you had been aware of my existence’.
‘Indeed I was’ he said, regretfully, ‘But I was told you were dating the senior cameraman. You must remember him, whatshisname, the foot fetishist you wore all those wonderful shoes for’.