24th August 1995

I remember my grandmother coming to visit when I was a child. She always smelled a litle musty, and would insist on wearing the biggest most volumptuous outdoor coats "for travelling in", no matter what the season. Of course, as a pretentious, horrible and entirely self absorbed nine year old, I have very few memories of her before my ninth birthday.
I was busy sulking, because I'd been grounded for a fortnight and my party had been cancelled*. My grandmother came out to the garden, where I was busy trying to disentangle my hair from the rope swing, and she laughed. Armed only with a pair of nail clippers, she offered to cut me free if I'd listen to her speak for 30 minutes, then preceded to tell me a long and complicated story that lead to the purchase of her first pair of Manolos.
The moral of the story? I should eat what my parents told me to eat, because then I'd grow to be so tall I'd never need to wear expensive and horribly uncomfortable footwear.
Quite apart from this fixing a nasty Jack and the Beanstalk image in my mind**, this struck me as completely absurd; her shoes were beautiful- and this is what started the Junk Food Revolution that occured during my ninth year. However, I am completely convinced that my refusal to eat anthing remotely healthy for the next four or five years is not why I'm rather short; at five foot four, I'm actually lucky- my grandmother is 4"9 on a good day, and my mother is 5"0.
I also have this day to thank for my inability to ever grow my hair long again. And for the story my parents bring up at every gathering they've ever managed to drag me along to; The Time Imogen (aged nine and a bit) Asked For a Pair of Manolos For Christmas.

*Sources vary as to the reason.
**That pursues me to this day, as I think of Manolos- or watch Sex and the City.