I have had one such moment. Let me digress.

Tastefully dressed for a Christening on a sunny Sunday, I am chuffed that I have managed to style myself in the problematic dress code typical for such events, smart casual. Smart casual is one of those landmine dress requirements that is truly an art form. Pull it off & you look effortlessly chic. Go wrong & you will be ridiculed & talked about for weeks.

So, managing to pull off the unimaginable, I affirm my classic black & white couture of choice with a quick nod at the mirror & we are out the door.

Of course I am wearing heels which require significant concentration & a concerted ball of the foot teeter so as not to put too much pressure on their decadent heel.

Sitting through a grueling sermon from a minister who has decided this is his last chance to convert the unconverted who have attended this morning's service & chasing my small child around the parish to ensure she doesn't play in the holy water, I manage to execute this walk with precision. Gathering outside post service to chat & into the car park enroute to the next venue, all done with almost gay abandon.

Once back at the home of my friends, shoes are being removed so as to make the wearers more comfortable & I opt to maintain my elongated calf in my much sought after designer runway shoes, circa 1998. We sit down, chat & have a well earned glass of champagne. Realizing I have left the camera in the car I jump up from my seat & make the trek up the driveway.

Enter champagne induced momentary lapse of concentration.

There is a sound that only true shoe aficionados fear. I imagine it is somewhat like the noise of ones arm popping out of its shoulder socket. More like a gut wrenching pop than a crack, but sickening none-the-less.

That's when I hear it. It is at this point that my slow motion scene begins; arms flailing, aghast with mouth open, over-exaggerated lunge toward the ground to clutch at my shoe. A reaction similar to that of a character from an American soap opera who has just found out her husband is sleeping with her sister. NOOOOOOOOOO!

If you have not had the displeasure of this unpleasant incident then it is difficult to explain the pain associated with it. You see, a high-end heel is a most exotic creature. Beautifully styled, beginning generously by securing the heel of your foot with cradle like reassurance, then elegantly whipping itself to a chic point. A designer shoe is all about the heel. One can usually recognize a designer specimen over a clever reproduction by the architecture of the heel.

A blessing & a curse I have discovered. The quandary is that there is no replacement heel for a designer runway shoe. You can't just pop down to your local shoe guy & ask him to replace the fractured heel for a new one, because they don't exist.

To clarify, you can acquire replacement heels but they are such poor comparisons that you can not go close to matching the unscathed heel & you certainly wouldn't commit the shocking crime of ripping the other one off to match. (As much as your local shoe guy will insist this is the best option). This is just not an option.

Unperturbed by this information, designer shoe must be taken back to designer boutique. Once inside, the compassion you are seeking that only staff at such establishments can give is finally bestowed upon you. There is even a point where having tears well in your eyes almost seems justified.

You feel validation & comfort. Briefly. Right up to the point the designer boutique minion returns from her phone call to 'head office' & her expression has morphed from sympathetic to defensive. Apparently there is nothing they can do.

Frankly, it hasn't happened to anybody else. Ever. You are the only one & while she does feel your pain she has no answers for you. Despite the fact you are willing to pay for a replacement heel, that you understand it's not the poor shoe's fault it's your fault, she is unrepentant. A few tears, threats never to shop there again (which could by the way, most unquestionably effect their bottom line) mixed with a touch of begging & you are out the door.

Distress & melancholy subsiding, you are back in problem solving mode. Right. Shoe guy can't help. Damn designer boutique that sold me a shoe worth more than a Tiffany ring can't help. Fashion designer friend! He will know someone or something to remedy this. Surely.

Pouty lips, sad eyes & lots of back pats & darls later, this hope too is dashed.

It is time to come to terms with the undeniable fact that this just may be the end for you & designer runway shoe. Time to mourn. Even slipping into the shoe boutique de jour doesn't help to modify your state of mind.

Nothing, it seems is going to replace those ribbons that caress your legs & the 3 month wait list you were on to get them in the first place. You have suffered a loss.

Eventually you will find a pair that will fill the hole left by this loss for the occasional long days or nights, where a sturdy shoe is a necessity. Somewhere in the back of your mind you know that they will never replace the ones that got away, but you will learn to love them.

Designer runway shoe & I still date. We still find an occasion now & then that can accommodate our needs. Short nights where there are guaranteed to be no concentration lapses (because that would not end well, fractured heel would become snapped heel), minimal standing & ball of the foot walking & we can still look fabulous together.

It's not the same, but it could be worse & you won’t feel this way forever. Next season is just around the corner & you know that one day, you will have healed sufficiently to fall in love again!