Last week Mum took me and Oskar to a shoe shop. I presumed we were there for Oskar or Mum, but, to my horror, we were there to get some shoes for me. A lady measured my foot with a cold, metal thing and then disappeared. She came back with some shiny, black boots and squashed my feet into them. I was mortified. I stood on the groud and felt like my feet were in cages that were rooted to the ground. I stood there with my legs way apart and wobbled back and forth. There was no way I was going to lift a foot off the ground. I cried and wailed and held out my arms to Mummy. She cuddled me but wouldn't pick me up. After a good five or ten minutes of insistent crying they finally took the shoes off my feet. I was happy until they stuck another pair on, but at least this pair were a bit softer, so I cried a bit less hard. But I still cried. And I wouldn't move from where Mum put me on the ground. Eventually Mum picked me up, so I stopped crying, but then we left the shop and the shoes were still on my feet! I tugged at them in the car, but couldn't get them off. When we got home Mum put me on the ground and I stuck to the spot and started crying again. I was very happy when the shoes were taken off.

A couple of days on and I've sort of changed my mind about them. Daddy held my hands and encouraged me to walk in them, so I tentatively took a few steps and felt okay. Then this afternoon I went to the park with Mum and Oskar, and have to admit that it's much nicer having shoes on than having bits of woodchips sticking through my socks and pricking my feet. I set off exploring at the park and left Mum and Oskar behind as I wandered away to peer into the tennis courts and look at the ravens on the grass. It was really very nice.

But what was really nice was being able to walk along the street with Daddy as he held my hand with Oskar holding his other hand. I could get used to that.