Somewhere between having a beautiful satin heel stuck and nearly ruined between pavement slates in front of the design museum and jumping between water puddles in a pair of sparkly ballerinas, I finally accepted that I hate fine dining. I have serious doubts about that I will ever understand why a five-course dinner of minuscule lovelinesses absolutely must be accompanied by six normal-to-large glasses of wine. It's not that I object to the general festivity, but somehow that particular aspect of fine dining never fits the shoes I wear to such occasions... And it generally makes for a not quite as lovely administration of important e-mails the following morning.
So, my shoes would rather stay home with a cup of tea and a basket of freshly baked scones on the sofa. Unless the shoes are wellies, but those are generally more compatible with visiting my Buddha than dinners at star-struck restos.