First Steps

For Vogue competition; the theme was 'a personal memory'

My very first word was ‘shoe’. It was clear and distinct, and I’m assured that my mother didn’t translate some vague shoe-sounding word into the real thing - it was truly the word ‘shoe’. I had just been given my first pair - or the first pair I could actually wear, at least. My parents had already purchased little pairs of Doc Martens and Converse that I was yet to grow into; clearly my fascination with fashion was thrust upon me at an early age. I still absolutely adore shoes, and am the proud owner of a wardrobe full of fabulous footwear. Unfortunately, much like when I uttered my first word, I am still unable to master walking - in high-heels, at least. Yet, there seems to be something magical about childhood memories that have made an imprint on our adult life.


When I was younger we had a larder under the stairs, with a little mesh-covered window facing onto the garden, keeping it cold. I loved this larder, covered in glow-in-the-dark moons and stars, and I would go and sit in it during every single game of hide-and-seek, without fail. I may have often been the first one found, but I didn’t care - this was before I discovered my competitive nature, which made its first appearance but a few years later. I could’ve spent light-years in there, with those glow-in-the-dark stars; journeying through space, discovering unknown planets - and stealing cake, of course. My mother was an avid baker, and so we’d constantly have mountains of delicious, freshly made cakes and breads piled up in the larder. She would always encourage us children to help her bake a cake - and then have a mental breakdown and send us all away again half-way through, when we had icing sugar in our hair, up our noses, and pretty much everywhere but on the cake. I still enjoy a spot of baking every now and again - although nowadays I manage to keep the ingredients in the bowl and out of my hair. Well, most of the time, anyway.


The potting-shed in our back garden, which was lovingly referred to as my Wendy House, was another place where I spent many happy hours. My mother had painted the walls so it would look like the inside of a real house, with drawn-on kitchen worktops, and a dining room table and chairs. Tragically, I took the ‘real house’ element slightly too far, and tried to wash down the table and sides with a soapy cloth. This meant the walls looked less like a real house, and more like a poor imitation Picasso painting - but I loved it anyway - I just didn’t clean it again. Unfortunately this horrific ordeal stayed with me, as even to this day I often refuse to do any cleaning and tidying, all because of this childhood trauma.. Ahem.


The Wendy House led out into the back garden, where I would play with my little brother and sister, Arthur and Annie, all summer long. To be honest, this would often consist of me watching Annie picking up snails, licking them, and putting them back, or trying to stop her from eating ladybirds (or her own foot). Luckily, our sisterly adventures now consist of shopping and Starbucks, rather than snails and saliva; although she continues to have an adventurous palate, to this day.

My first ‘boyfriend’ was called Charles. He was the typical class stud, even at the tender age of seven - blonde hair, blue eyes, and absolutely no brains whatsoever. He also had a rather runny nose, that I never saw completely dry. Not quite what I look for in a boyfriend these days, but it worked a charm in primary school. He gave me my first kiss, and I taught him the alphabet. How romantic. Although to be fair, nowadays I have to teach boyfriends a lot more than just the alphabet - no, you can’t put a metal can in the microwave, and yes, pasta needs to be cooked in water. I suppose some things never change.


I always did like to be in charge of the kitchen; or of my own play kitchen and oven, at least. As well as making a multitude of meals using only leaves and grass - a right little Nigella Lawson already - I also enjoyed lying with my head in the oven. I honestly don’t know why I did this; personally I like to think of it as showing my literary tendencies at a young age already - perhaps more Plath than Lawson. All I can hope for now is that I’ll manage to have more success in my literary endeavours than I gave myself credit for as a six-year-old…