Walk of shame? Or stride of pride?!

It’s funny, this blog writing malarky...When I've got time to sit and write I feel I've nothing interesting to say, other than to rant about stuff like the lack of temperature control in the library. And when I've interesting stuff to write about they invariably take up all my time, leaving none to write in. 

Sometimes, I'll think up a topic but it’s too glaringly obvious to bash out 400ish words about - Facebook, perhaps, and bemoaning why saying “woop woop” has become at all acceptable.  Or else I'll start writing about stuff that's not quite suitable for a potential employer/boyfriend to read about – as expertly evidenced by my friend Gaz’s suggestion: “Write a blog about doing the walk of shame!”

However...here I am about to embark on a blog about the walk of shame...

I have a charming view from my bedroom window.  It overlooks a car park and a little housing estate and I can just glimpse Smithdown Asda.  Many a happy hour has been spent watching the two squirrels that live in the car park; scampering about, finding nuts, storing nuts, checking nuts, eating nuts, etc.

And every so often I also get to feast my eyes on someone doing the old walk of shame.  Or stride of pride as one friend calls it.  

Harvey Nichol's used their Christmas advert to suggest that it's quite alright to do the walk of shame provided you're wearing the right dress... They were wrong.

Now, let’s be frank.  We’ve all woken up in unfamiliar houses or unsavoury bedrooms and had to trudge home.  Not necessarily after a night of passion, sometimes just when you’ve outstayed your welcome at an after party and woken up clutching a toilet roll and nursing a bleeding lip.  

But walk of shames seem more to be characterised by the shoes than the dress...

The best walk of shame I ever witnessed was a lad sitting on the 86 bus with no shoes on at 11am one Thursday morning.  Good night at Med?!

And imagine the joy when my housemates and I found a pair of hideous heels outside our front door one Sunday morning.  We live very near a few takeaways so can only assume that carrying the heels was detrimental to being able to eat ones chicken salted chips on the walk home one evening.  The shoes simply had to be sacrificed.  (We kindly left the shoes with a note, in case she returned.  She did.  She didn't reply though.)

When I see, from my bedroom window, girls waiting for taxis of a morning I look upon those clutching their shoes with pity, and those wearing them with admiration. 

Arriving home with the soles of your feet dirtier than the night before's activities is never a good look.