The Cuban Heel - A Comedy of Shoe Errors

I was reminded recently of a date I went on several years ago. It was set up by a male friend of mine, and was the first time he had ever tried to intervene in my personal life, so I didn't take the proposal lightly.

The chap in question was a personal trainer (let's call him PT), which piqued my interest in a purely superficial manner. Strangely, my friend appeared to have developed an unhealthy man-crush on PT and waxed lyrical about his mind-blowing good looks and dazzling personality. Given my friend was a happily married heterosexual; I could only assume that PT must be an absolute hunk.

Fast-forward to D-Day and my expectations were running wild. I had not even seen a photo of PT - my friend's glowing account was sufficient and just added another dimension of intrigue and anticipation, in my head I had conjured an image of Russell Crowe in Gladiator, a bronzed god-like figure of a man, I couldn't believe my luck.

I waited nervously outside Covent Garden tube station, looking in all directions for a bulk of brawny manliness to come my way. Instead, I was approached by a lean, bland-looking man who would be more at home flower-arranging than at the Colosseum, my heart sank. I had been mis-sold PPI. 

I was so wracked with disappointment that I didn't have the inclination to give him a quick once over which is customary on a first date, in fact I couldn't bring myself to look at him at all, I was too busy wondering how I was going to explain to my friend that we had very different taste in men; how could he have got this so wrong?

Before I had time to pull myself together, we had reached the date venue. I retracted some of my initial discontent; a quirky cabaret restaurant was a bold choice, and would prevent any awkward silences. There was a mild atmosphere of depravity inside, semi-naked circus performers were writhing around us. On the plus side it was so dark I didn't have to worry too much about the look of disappointment on my face.

It was only as we sat down that I gained the strength to analyse this man's appearance. The first thing I noticed was his garish shirt, a paisley number with a nod to the seventies. I reserved judgement. I already knew he didn't drink alcohol, this didn't particularly bother me, but when he announced smugly, "Sugar is the devil, I don't touch the stuff", I thought, wow this guy knows how to have fun.

As a self-confessed chocoholic this was never going to work. We ate - I drank. After some polite conversation about the sugar content of fruit, I was quite literally blind-sided when PT brazenly went in for a kiss. We are not talking about a gentle, introductory, testing the waters type of affair; this was a full-bodied, fervent attack on my senses.

Before I could come up for air I was somehow trapped in the moment and couldn't quite comprehend how we had gone from discussing the horrors of fructose one minute, to an intimate embrace the next. I managed to extricate myself from his hot grasp - incidentally he was more muscular that I had given him credit for. But that was irrelevant now, the damage was done.

Before he could recommence his attack I suggested we might want to think about leaving, anything to prevent another over zealous rampage. It was only when we emerged from the den of iniquity that I looked at his feet in horror. Were those.... Cuban heels on the end of his worryingly tight, troublingly flared jeans?

Now, I might come across as something of a hypocrite here; Lenny Kravitz in heels - absolutely. A bone fide rodeo rider in a classic cowboy boot - obviously. But a seventies-styled stack heel on a lithe personal trainer in central London, that's just plain wrong. I had to abort the date immediately.

I realised I was not alone in my shallow shoe judgement when I broached the subject with my single friends. One of them had a similar experience involving what could only be described as 'Noddy shoes'. She met a charming man but couldn't see past the red monstrosities encasing his feet, they were a Kicker bootie that we all remembered fondly from our childhood. It was the first thing she noticed, and needless to say, the only thing she recalled about their thirty minute coffee date.

It was concluded that the list of approved kicks for securing a second date is somewhat limited. Trainers, in pretty much all their guises made the top spot (barring the exceptionally worn out ones - there needs to be the implication of effort). An ankle boot, maybe a suede Chelsea or lace-up style, but men take note; you must avoid looking as though you've just come off a building site, or are about to go hiking. And anything with even a hint of a pointy toe has us running for the hills.

I did in fact see PT again, this time for lunch. It was the dignified way to put a lid on our mutual friend's failed matchmaking endeavours. He rocked up in full gym kit, and it was such a relief. If he had come dressed as a PT on our first date, instead of Prince, he might have got a second.