London - Nine o’clock on a Monday morning in London’s South Kensington and already a queue is snaking its way down the steps of the Victoria and Albert Museum.
Women of all ages wait patiently in the early morning sunshine. One particularly well-prepared visitor has a folding chair, sandwiches and a hat. Two Korean girls giggle and take photos of themselves with a selfie stick. Some ladies, evidently up from the country, check their e-ticket bookings.
What draws them here at this early hour? Some new exhibition of Eastern artefacts, perhaps? A newly-discovered William Morris wallpaper pattern? A cameo by George Clooney? No, no, nothing so mundane. In fact, it’s the museum’s latest blockbuster - Shoes: Pleasure And Pain.
It may be a cliche, but there’s no denying it: aside, perhaps, from an exhibition about the history of the handbag (I’m happy to offer my curating services), there are few subjects more calculated to attract a female audience than shoes.
Why? Oh, I don’t know - but women just love shoes. Maybe it’s because, unlike clothes, shoes don’t discriminate according to age or waist size, they won’t make you feel fat or inferior and they’ll never cling in the wrong places or make for a bad photo.
Or perhaps it’s because, in the right pair of shoes, you can do just about anything.
Desk to disco? Slip on a glitter wedge. Feeling down in the dumps? Something sumptuous in butter-soft leather. Need to teach someone a lesson? Killer heels. Flirting with feminism? Doc Martens.
For my money, it’s all Cinderella’s fault. What better testament could there be to the transforming power of shoes than this most ubiquitous of fairytales - the story of the downtrodden kitchen girl, the prince and the glass slipper?
Every girl knows about Cinders. She insinuates herself into the female subconscious at an early age. Like it or not, somewhere in the back of every woman’s brain is a happy, simple little place where the right pair of shoes equals love, happiness and a handsome prince. No wonder we’ll queue around the block for them.
It is a wholly irrational obession. But then, we women are not known for being rational when it comes to affairs of the heart.
In fact, our relationships with men are, in many ways, uncannily similar to those we have with shoes.
When we are young, for example, we have a tendency to be attracted to impractical shoes our mothers disapprove of. As we grow older, we become a little more sophisticated in our tastes - though we still prioritise looks over comfort.
In time, most of us come to favour an all-rounder that works with everything: something aesthetically pleasing yet practical. The occasional sexy number may still catch our eye but, ultimately, we always return to our comfortable mid-heel.
But while shoes and men often occupy equal space in the female brain, the two are not necessarily equal. I’m sorry, fellows, but shoes will always have the advantage. For it is well understood that while a girl can survive without a man, she cannot live without shoes.
This may help to explain the mysterious appeal of the Sex And The City TV series and films, which women adored, but most men (certainly straight ones) found utterly baffling.
Our sample-sized heroine Carrie could never quite rely on her on-off beau Mr Big as much as her trusty collection of overpriced footwear.
The problem was resolved when Big eventually proposed using not a ring, but a jewel-encrusted stiletto, sliding it on to her foot in a gesture that was simultaneously absurd, yet undeniably appropriate.
She should have stuck with the shoes - ultimately, Big caused her nothing but agony.
But then, with men, as with shoes, we women don’t always make the most sensible choice.
This is abundantly clear once, having fought my way into the crowded V&A, I am able to observe some of history’s best. There is a pair of ‘fetish’ shoes from the 1890s designed by London shoemaker Joseph Box - the sort one can imagine adorning the stocking-clad legs of a corseted showgirl in Paris; silk-satin heels from the 1750s with diamond-encrusted buckles; tiny silk-and-leather ‘lotus’ shoes, said to resemble a lotus bud, designed for the bound feet of Chinese women - both gruesome and gorgeous.
Alongside them are slippers embroidered in gold and laced with rubies, emeralds and diamonds; black slingbacks from the collection of Imelda Marcos, the most famous shoe hoarder; and red satin Freed ballet pointes, as worn in the 1948 film The Red Shoes.
Perhaps my favourites are the shoes that demonstrate a true commitment to footwear and workmanship: a pair of war-time booties, “repurposed” from the owner’s old fur coat (to get around rationing) and exquisite beaded silk and leather evening shoes by Roger Vivier for Christian Dior.
In short, all of human life is here in shoe form. And they all have one thing in common: they look monstrously uncomfy. Very few seem made for walking - more for posing or, perhaps, a gentle totter from sedan chair to swain. Certainly, in this exhibition, flats do not get much of a look-in.
There is a definite sense that, if it were up to the shoemakers, no woman would leave the house in anything less than a 5in spike.
They certainly would have agreed with the organisers of this year’s Cannes Film Festival, who were chastised for allegedly banning women from wearing flats on the red carpet.
In the end, the story turned out to be exaggerated. But it served as a reminder of a truth abundantly clear here: high heels are sexy - flats are not.
(Embarrassingly, I must confess that as I was admiring history’s greatest - and silliest - shoes, I was sporting a pair of Nike trainers. Well, exhibitions are torture on the pins. But typically, in the summer months, wedge heels are my failsafes.) There are many theories on why high heels are sexy, from those who suggest they sexualise a woman’s gait to others who claim the arch of the foot is inherently erotic.
But for those who say heels are a tool of sexist oppression, an instrument of torture designed to subjugate women, this show may surprise you. For some of the most extravagant heels on display here belong - or belonged - to gentlemen.
A man’s heel from Germany circa 1600 is velvet with gold thread and spangles. Young noblemen during roughly the same period in France were stacking at least 4in, plus bows and embellishments, largely thanks to the Sun King, Louis XIV who, being somewhat vertically challenged, instructed his shoemaker to add 2in to the height of his heels.
Embroidered, rose-shaped decorations were widely used to emphasise the turn of a shapely male ankle, while red velvet heels denoted elevated rank.
Which brings us back to the 21st century and what is the ultimate mark of modern social superiority: the flash of a red sole on a pair of Christian Louboutins - represented here by a simple but timeless pair of black, leather stilettos.
Some things never change.
Daily Mail