Big shoes to fill

 

I had an interview today.

Not something I often put myself forward for, or through. Lets be honest, as a woman of lived experience, and my most recent lived experience of the hiring process, I'm less inclined to "put myself out there," if there is no finite need to do so. And there isn't... a finite need. Work is ticking over, academia is in full flow, the writing, the balacing, the living and learning are all leading to my greatest job so far - being a mother; which will take up most of my time for coming weeks regardless of sessions, deliverables and other things that will run in my absence.

However, today, I did indeed do something radical, and interviewed for a national role. Playing with the big boys in the big leagues, because to be honest - I can, I should, and I will be the bad ass policy bitch you know and love by now. On a national level. It's coming. Whether its this, who knows.

But let me share with you the learning from today.

I got dressed, in a smart cas suit, dark green, my colours. Sets my hazel eyes a-blaze. Rings of brown fire, circulating green orbs that glisten in fury and passion for the wants and needs of my next endeavours. White, crisp, cotton tshirt, gold jewelerry, dappled, subtle, giving privilege, but not wanker, understated, and more TK Maxx than Harvey Nics. Girls learning, that the love and joy of things, is in their purpose and presentation, not in their price. So today, it's bling, it's wedding ring, it's not Montecarlo, it's Manchester. 

I bring the North down south.

Tommy Hilfiger dad socks as Sarah calls them, they're beautiful black cotton, calve high, man socks, I like the warmth and the pragmatism of crossing ones leg in no fear of flashin a potentially bristly winter shaved leg. I jest, girls smooth.

None the less, its a lovely pair of socks, I used a Christmas voucher from my mother-in-law to purchase a pack of 3 and they are my "serious work socks," and as such, only come out when the business suits come out.

And now.... the shoe. Too important a meeting for a trainer, too many steps around the city for a boot, and thus - a brogue. Black, leather, laced, beauty.

I tie my laces, with a foot upon a dining chair in my dimly lit living room, and remember tieing these shoes before.

These are my court shoes. The ones I wore to Crown Court the day of sentencing. In a black polyester Primark suit, that shone in the December sunlight, not in a good way, with a mask upon my face that hid only half my shame as the local news press snapped and papped my mug shot outside of the court building. I clip clopped these shiny shoes into the court room, all the way to the prison van. And indeed, the prison halls - eventually.

I wasn't allowed them in the first prison, they were taken from my feet, laces and all, returned to me shortly, laceless as I had no other shoes. In my haste of packing a "prison bag," shoes didn't occur to me, it was always touch and go according to my barrister as to a custodial sentence, so I prioritised knickers, tshirts and writing paper. It was an ecclectic bag of shit I had no hope or intention of using or needing in my naivety. Turns out, shoes would have been a good shout.

I was told when I got to open, and the girls giggled at the sight of these leather wonders, that they were infact "nonce shoes," and it made me laugh out loud. Only in jail would you hear such a phrase - that a day to day work shoe, as were these, put to good use on my daily stomp through Manchester city center to the light bright offices where I worked, taught and loved my job, daily.

"Nonce shoes,"

Thank god for fucking google - and thats the only time you'll hear me say that. Never mind having your deps, girl needed a digital footprint to show the conviction was fraud - actual fraud. As other sentences didn't sit too well otherwise.

What a thing, in 2026, November, to wear the reliable and beautiful shoes to an interview for something prison related, and not to wear them in prison. Just 5 years on. I disappeared on a December night in 2020, not to be seen again, not really, in a pandemic, until late 2021. These shoes have lived a life, and since prison, theyve danced - in a tuxedo for an award ceremony, they've stomped through Westminster, to sit in halls, of power, purpose and politics, but today, they sat awkwardly on my feet as I felt for the first time in a long time - a little out of my depth.

Why?

Where does this feeling come from? Is it the shoes? Is it the memory? Is it the time of year? Or is it the fear? The fear of rejection. Objection. 

The fear of critique, calamity, chaos. That this ex-con should dare to dream and have ideas above her station. It's internalised anxiety and imposter syndrome. I know that. I've earned my stripes, like a Zebra in the zoo. I know my shit. I've got stats, data, figures, facts, reality, humility, and more. Commonality? We'll see.

My lovely Erwin told me to burn, to show my fire, use it, wield it and never yield it. Perhaps today was that day.

I've got vision, passion, indignation, to carry it forward, carry it through, to the echolons and back. From grassroots to those hallways these little shoes clod hopped around. I have it in me. The fire, will, knowledge and power. But it's clouded by this little voice that says - not you. Not now.

It's the shoes. The laces mock me. Taken. Re-laced by me, with weary hands and a broken heart in an open prison, where they were allowed to be mine once again. Tied for show.

Perhaps I need new shoes to match this suit. This armour. This shield.

Its Christmas soon, a TK Maxx voucher may be afoot.