In the swag of low-priced wearable goodies brought back from my trip to China is a pair of calf-length brown dress boots that lace up the back. With a dreary Aussie winter already upon us and faced with the prospect of lavender toes when donning thongs and other forms of open summer footwear (mmm, attractive), I decided it was about time for me to break them in. Thus followed the painful but inevitable breaking-in period, during which I unwisely decided to embark on a daylong shopping expedition with my mother, who has the endurance of Forrest Gump when it comes to uncovering decent clothing that has inexplicably ended up on the sale rack – honey, show me a pair of brand-new shoes and I’ll tell you about blisters… Whoever said that fashion is about being comfortable, a) was without doubt a man, and b) has obviously never stood for forty-five minutes on a train at peak hour in five-inch heels and a miniskirt.

The pain of squishing full-sized toes into pointy shoes aside, the next time I put on my boots a funny thing happened. The moment I went out the door I felt different somehow, and people were looking at me in a funny way. Initially, this was more of a cause for panic than for celebration, and the first chance I got I ducked into an isolated corner to check that my fly was done up, that there wasn’t any toilet paper hanging out the back of my pants, and that I didn’t have ‘Bite Me’ written in cursive across my forehead. Surprisingly enough, I had managed to leave the house with all my clothing intact and the right way round, and with a minimal amount of indecent exposure, so I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what it was that had strangers staring. That is, until I remembered the integral part of my outfit that was making my strides long and confident, and made me feel taller than I’ve ever been (okay, so I don’t really need the extra height but whatever) – the boots. And at that moment, I suddenly comprehended the transformation that the apparently innocuous pair of boots had effected on me. With those shoes on my feet, getting around had become more than merely a matter of walking. There was no shlumping, no slouching, and definitely no shuffling like you’re creeping outside to get the paper on a Saturday morning in pyjamas and an ancient dressing gown. When you put on a pair of boots, you can’t just walk anymore – you’ve got to strut.

(And by boots I mean REAL boots, the kind with a proper heel and zips, laces, buttons that do up, the kind that encases the foot in a snug layer of leather or pleather or snakeskin or suede – not any of those horrid woolly glorified slippers that passed for actual footwear amongst deluded Hollywood starlets throughout much of 2004 and 2005, and also amongst an alarming number of fashion victims in the general public, sometimes teamed with – horror of horrors! – a miniskirt or short shorts that inch up past mid-thigh. For Christ’s sake, if it really is THAT cold, PUT ON A PAIR OF PANTS! There is a REASON ugg is short for UGLY, people!! But I digress.)

And your way of walking isn’t the only thing that’s changed either – boots have the power to turn you into a bolder, sassier, more assured version of yourself. Sneakers are practical, Havaianas go with practically everything, and peep-toe heels are gorgeous and girly and I seriously need a decent pair for summer. But a pair of boots is something else – hiding imperfections and your daggy winter socks, keeping you warm, protecting your poor, mistreated toes when trodden on by careless passers-by, and, if the heels are tall and spiky enough, can be potentially lethal. In boots, you feel empowered, invulnerable, unafraid to look rude salespeople in the eye, gutsy enough to smile at the cute guy who’s been staring at you from behind the counter of the donut stand for the last five minutes. And I know at the root of the matter it’s really only Dutch courage of the most understated kind, but if something as innocent and wonderful as a pair of great shoes can make you feel so good about yourself, then well… why not?