DIAL 999 FOR DILEMMA
I’ve got this thing about high heels you see. It’s not that I don’t enjoy wearing all the other things girls wear – I do – but heels are my particular fetish, you might say. I’m lucky because for a man I have small feet – size 7, which enables me to buy a delightful variety of women’s shoes from normal shoe shops (presents for my wife you understand). I should know better really because I’m all of 5 feet 8 inches tall anyway, and with six inch heels on I’m – well, you work it out for yourself. Actually, I usually settle for 3 to 4 inch heels, but when the mood takes me I cannot resist six inchers. My wardrobe is full of shoes of every imaginable colour, from strappy sandals, to wedge heels, to classy court shoes – you name them and I’ve got them!
Anyway, to get on with my tale: this particular evening I was in one of my moods – I felt I had to go for six inch heels, and I selected these very sexy, bright red leather sandals with cross-over ankle straps secured by tiny brass buckles. I had already decided that I was going to wear this slinky silk frock, which was the same colour as the shoes. It had a daring tulip skirt which opened at the front when I walked or sat down, giving the observer an encouraging glimpse of lacy things to come. As it was an early autumn evening I was going to wear my white hip length woollen coat with its brass buttons and big pockets. With my black jewellery, my sheer black stockings and my black hair I tell you I looked pretty hot stuff!
Of course, the thing about really high heels is the way they effect your walking – you are compelled to take small steps, leaning your body back and pushing your pelvis forward. The result is a very sexy walk indeed, once you’ve got the hang of it. I just love to see the fellows gawking at me and fantasising as I walk past them – if only they knew what I had between my legs! Of course, the major problem is that you can’t cover ground fast, and to run is to invite disaster – you just have to be content to take small, hip-swivelling steps, You become, in fact, like most women – extremely vulnerable.
Well, everything went fine at the beginning as I took my little walk around town, which was something I never missed if the weather was anything like okay. It was straight home from my van driving job, a quick bite to eat and then the pleasures of the wardrobe and choosing the garbe I mentioned earlier.
It was at the pelican crossing in the centre of town that my downfall took place. This stupid car, driven by some pimply faced youth came charging around the bend just as I was halfway across the road, and sent me flying. I wasn’t actually badly hurt, apart from what appeared to be a sprained ankle, but within a few seconds there was quite a crowd around me as some bloke helped me carefully to the pavement and sat me on his coat. A pretty girl picked up my handbag and put back the bits and pieces that had tumbled out when it had hit the road and burst open.
“Are you alright, my dear?” she enquired as she gave me back my handbag. I smiled and nodded.
“I think she might have broken her ankle”, the guy who’d helped me said. He looked like a retired army man to me. “Anyway, someone’s gone to ring for an ambulance”.
The car had not stopped – probably stolen – but somebody had got the number, which I thought was very public spirited.
By the time I had pulled myself together a bit I began to realise that I was in a spot of bother. I couldn’t just get up and walk away with my ankle like it was, which meant that I would have to let the ambulance take me to hospital when it arrived. Then what? Quite apart from which, the police would presumably want a statement. Damn!!! Things were not looking too good. If only I had not been wearing my six inch heels I’d probably have been able to jump out of the way of the car in time, and I wouldn’t have been in this pickle.
The ambulance duly arrived and I was lifted onto a stretcher, one of the ambulance men hurriedly covering me with a blanket as my tulip petal skirt was showing far more than it had any right to! We sped off with the sirens blaring and me lying there thinking how nice it was that the blanket matched the colour of my shoes! One of the ambulance men was asking me whether my ankle hurt and could I move it, and was I alright apart from that, and so on.
At the hospital I’m sitting in this chair trying to keep my skirt together at the front – somehow it didn’t seem right to look too sexy in a place like that – when, after what seemed an age, they wheeled me off to get my ankle X-rayed. They had wanted to give me a thorough all-over examination, which would certainly have set the cat amongst the pigeons, but I hurriedly assured them that it was only my ankle and that otherwise I was fine – just fine. Some really dolly nurse had undone the suspenders on my stockings and rolled it off for me, which was a very pleasant experience I can assure you, and I remember thinking how lucky it was that I had waxed my legs only a few days earlier!
So there I was an hour later, contemplating my red painted toenails on my injured foot, when in walks a doctor carrying an X-ray. My ankle is not broken – only sprained, which is a considerable relief. However, they think it advisable to keep me in overnight as a precaution and fortunately there’s a bed spare, the only one, but in the maternity ward. Now, don’t get me wrong, I would have no objection at all to spending the night with all those lovely ladies, but the thought of suddenly revealing my little secret in front of them all as the nurses tried to persuade me into a hospital nightie was something I found decidedly embarassing. As a result I declined the doctor’s kind invitation – quite forcibly, but of course with due graciousness and feminine charm, and it was eventually agreed that my ankle would be strapped up and they would send me home in an ambulance.
I was having a last cup of tea, my ankle all strapped up and the ambulance due at any moment, when the long arm of the law appeared in the shape of a very young acned policeman, notebook at the ready. It appeared that they’d caught the pimply faced youth. Anyway, they wanted a formal statement from me and could I manage to get down to the station or would I rather have apoliceman come round to my house? Well, the last thing I wanted was some copper snooping around my place, so I said I’d come down to the station to make my statement. Apparently I would also have to appear as a witness, or victim or something, at the magistrate’s court, and that would probably be in about a week or so. So he just wrote down my name and address – Rita, I told him Rita Johnson – and then left.
I was in seventh heaven all the way back in the ambulance. I was able to go down to the police station fully ‘dressed’ – I could hardly suddenly appear as a man, and obviously the same would have to apply to my appearance in court. What more exciting experience could any ‘girl’ ask for!
I felt totally confident that I would be able to carry the whole thing off, particularly after the way all the nurses had accepted me as a real woman. The only fly in the ointment as far as I was concerned was my blasted strapped ankle – I’d never be able to get a decent shoe over it. I was determined, come hell or high water, I would get rid of the strapping before my appearance in the witness box, for I was going to be wearing the most stunning outfit money could buy, and the most elegant, sexiest pair of shoes with the highest heels those Magistrates had ever seen in their lives, and I’d certainly have better briefs than any solicitor present!