Channelling the Chukka

   Today, I took my first ever driving test. The minute that I saw the snooty woman, who I later found out to be the examiner from hell, that would be accompanying me on this nerve-wracking journey, I knew that I was set up for failure. One unnecessary slam on the brakes later from this conceited instructor, my predictions were revealed to be 100% correct. The only thing that kept me from slamming my head against the wheel, closing my eyes and letting the car swerve in to the back of a bus were the holy shoes that I was wearing, my Chukka's (Flyknit Chukka FSB's to be precise). These shoes are my newest prized possession, and aside from the fact that they look like they were created in heaven, having the most perfect combinations of greys, blacks and whites, they're also disgustingly comfortable. With these sock-like beauties there's no typical wounds left at the back of my feet, which one usually finds with new shoes, no meteor sized blisters and no limping the next day after the first wear. It almost shouldn't be possible to have a pair of trainers so weightless and light that you feel like you're walking, or driving, on clouds, but somehow it is. So, after my slight fit at the end of my test which included excessive yelling, revolting swearing and destroying my test sheet, I looked down at my feet and relaxed, remembering how much better my shoes were than hers. The ancient, shiny black plastic Clark's plimsoles with a velcro-strap that she had on reminded me of a pair that your mum would've made you wear in Primary School because they 'lasted long'. So whilst I may not be able to drive for another few weeks, at least my choice of shoes won't make anyone projectile vomit. Shout out to the old bag who failed me, if you somehow end up reading this, fuck you.

H