Dear New Look,
Hey. Hi there, buddy. So this weekend I fell over in a pair of your shoes. Now I know what you’re thinking: if I’m going to wear silly shoes like this…
…It’s my own fault if I fall over. I agree with you. Nothing makes me more apprehensive than seeing a gaggle of girls tottering around in what is essentially a glorified and more dangerous version of bucket stilts, waiting to see which one pounds the pavement first. However, you will be surprised to hear that I was not wearing those shoes, but these:
DO THESE LOOK SILLY TO YOU?
I’m not angry. Just hurt. Really, really hurt. You need to put a warning on your flat shoes. Maybe just let people that you don’t grip the bottom. Let people know the soles appear to be coated in Nickelodeon slime. Just pop a little note inside the shoe that says ‘WARNING: These shoes are not suitable for people who plan on running round corners.’
Because that’s what I was doing. I was running round a corner when my agility failed me once again. I slipped and hit every single pointy bit on the left side of my body including my elbow, knee, ankle and a little bone that sticks out in my hand.
So basically my ankle has been reduced to a sock-full of dust where my bones used to be. It’s pretty gruesome, so there’s no need for a picture. The nurse said it would be harder to put back together than the Battle of Trafalgar jigsaw puzzle she’s been working on. That is a true story. Don’t look any further into that though because it’s definitely true, and you can take my word for it. I’m a very trustworthy person, and that’s not coming from me, that’s just what my friends say. They call me Pascale “Trustworthy” Day, and you can trust them too because most of them have degrees. So let’s not bring up the need for evidence because it’s really not necessary, trust me (because you can).
Instead, here is a picture of my hand, which I also hit pretty hard on the way down.
As you can see, it’s covered with a plaster, and underneath that plaster is another plaster, because I can’t get the first plaster off. It has fused to the scab that is currently forming and will probably be a part of me forever. I’ve also got a booboo on my knee which is very stingy :(.
And before you ask no, I don’t need a Wah-mbulance. I was already in hospital at the crack of dawn this morning to try and get me some crutches. Because I need them to get to work, not because I want to guarantee myself a seat on the train. (That’s another very true fact. You can trust me, remember?). They didn’t give me any, but it was okay because my boyfriend and I got to use my wheelchair to do some suweeeet donuts in the car park which made the excursion totally worth it.
I’ve always thought very highly of you, NL. I’ve always had your back. Even when my friends said that your clothes lose their shape too easily and that all your white tops always have foundation marks around the neck. I say “Nah, they’re alright”. Even when one friend said “Their shoes are festooned death-traps,” well, I didn’t disagree, but the important thing is I didn’t agree either. (I can’t tell you who my friend is because Kate would kill me. (Kate Smith.))
But could I say the same now…………..?
We’re both adults here, New Look. I’m not a monster, and I know you aren’t either. SO GIVE ME WHAT I WANT AND I WON’T SQUEAL:
- One day’s pay for the sick day I have taken
- My dignity restored
- The four hours I spent watching Skins on Netflix back
- A pair of socks that will fit over my cankle
- Eventually a new ankle
- Maybe a new hand – only time will tell
- Let me be your fashion model for next season – I’m really good at breathing in and I look swell in a chunky knit I promise
Think it over. Get back to me. I hope we can sort this shit out.
Pascale Trustworthy Day