Platform
Clogs Vs
Motorbike
It all started with this!
Choosing Shoes by Frida Wolfe
New shoes, new shoes,
Red and pink and blue shoes.
Tell me, what would you choose,
If they’d let us buy?
Buckle shoes, bow shoes,
Pretty pointy-toe shoes,
Strappy, cappy low shoes;
Let’s have some to try.
Bright shoes, white shoes,
Dandy-dance-by-night shoes,
Perhaps-a-little-tight shoes,
Like some? So would I.
BUT
Flat shoes, fat shoes,
Stump-along-like-that shoes,
Wipe-them-on-the-mat shoes,
That’s the sort they’ll buy.
This poem altered me for life. Shoes became an obsession.
I was prepared to beg, rob, and steal for them.
At fourteen, I saw them: slip-in high-heel platforms with leather fronts and rubber soles.
They were perfect. My life — I knew — could not continue without them.
Naturally, they were entirely unsuitable in my mother’s view: too loud, too high, too… everything I was.
Every Sunday I went to church. She stayed home to do the roast. She religiously pressed a brown packet into my hand for the collection box.
Initially, I gave it all. Then I reduced it, carefully padding my pocket money toward the prize. God didn’t strike me down; the church ceiling stayed intact.
Around the same time, I had a boyfriend with a motorbike. Also forbidden.
One Sunday afternoon, under the pretense of studying at a friend’s, I stuffed my new shoes and tight jeans into my rucksack, met the boys on their bikes,
and set off. Forty-five minutes later, we arrived at a riverside spot — what looked like an annual Hell’s Angels meetup.
Bikes gleaming, preened glossy girls and men eyeballing everything.
My boyfriend told me I could get off. I tried. And tried. My legs refused.
The horror on his face finally made me look down: my brand-new shoes had wrapped themselves around the exhaust pipes.
Leather clung, rubber melted. The universe laughing.
He drove me home. Two streams of thought on the way:
- Me: What was I going to tell my mother?
- Him: WTF has just happened?
I never heard from him again. I borrowed money from my sister, replaced the shoes, and kept the secret for years.
I told my mother many years later. She could only shake her head.
Lesson learned: Rebels don’t ask permission. Sometimes they fail spectacularly. Sometimes they fail with flair.
And sometimes… they just rise again in new shoes.
7 Rebel Wisdoms from the Platform Shoes
- Obsession fuels audacity.
Desire is the spark that pushes you past caution. - Rules are sometimes guidelines for your growth.
They teach you what matters most, not what you must follow. - Clever planning is rebellion’s secret weapon.
Brown packets, pocket money, and rucksacks — the tiniest strategies can make freedom possible. - Risk comes with spectacular lessons.
Wrapped around exhaust pipes or otherwise, failure teaches better than obedience ever could. - Persistence beats permission.
You may not get approval, but you can still achieve the impossible. - Secrets preserve survival, reflection preserves wisdom.
Some mistakes are best carried quietly, then examined years later. - Rising again is non-negotiable.
You fall. You fail. You pay the price. Then you walk taller — in new shoes.
So… are you ready to walk tall? Claim your platforms? Audacity is encouraged.