SHOES have never been my thing. While my friends salivate over designer slingbacks and moan in ecstasy at the mere mention of a new pair of Manolos, I tend to lurk about in the background, yawning athletically.

It's not that I'm immune to the beauty of shoes, it's just that I can think of about a million other things I would prefer to spend my money on - all £2.37 of it.

Books, booze and biscuits are just three of the many things that immediately spring to mind. Although I won't have any of your Rich Tea nonsense. Only heavy duty Hobnobs and plain chocolate digestives need apply.

It goes without saying then that my shoe collection is a pathetic sight. I have two pairs of ancient boots (brown, slouchy Wranglers for the school run; skinny, black knee-lengths for work) and two pairs of even more decrepit shoes (gnarled Next slingbacks for dress down days; over-the-top, all-singing, all-dancing heels for dressing up). Not very impressive, is it?

Imelda Marcos probably goes through more than that in an hour. I bet even Imelda Staunton is a veritable foot fetishist in comparison. But I'm sorry, shoes just don't do it for me.

Or, rather, they didn't until I fell head over high heels in love with a pair of black lace-ups. They might not sound like the stuff that dreams are made of, unless you dream of looking like a cross between Mary Poppins and Miss Jean Brodie, but as they sit on the desk in front of me now (I like to have them within stroking distance at all times) they evoke a strong emotional reaction.

They make me want to squeal with joy like a kid in a toy shop. They make me want to greet strangers with a hearty handshake rather than a suspicious 'whaddyawant' frown. They make me want to sing songs from the shows. And not some wailing, operatic number either, but an upbeat tune that involves a lot of grinning, thigh slapping and liberal sprinklings of 'Whip crack, away!' and the like.

But most of all they make me want to dance, an activity that has never been high up on my to-do list. Even though I was born on a Tuesday and am therefore naturally full of grace, I tend to hide it very well. Clumsy does not quite capture my complete lack of visible grace, but it's close. Lumpen is closer though.

With the help of my lovely new shoes, I am discovering that I'm perhaps not quite so much of a cart-horse as I suspected. There may even be a touch of thoroughbred in me somewhere.

You see, they are not just ordinary shoes, they're tap shoes. I went along for my first lesson last week with my chums M & K and was bewitched. We were uncoordinated, out of step and undoubtedly looked about as graceful as a bag of chimps, but we all felt great.

In my head I was Catherine Zeta Jones in Chicago. For all I know, M & K were fighting it out on either side of me to be Renee Zellweger (I'd put my money on M because she looks like she's got a mean left hook. Oh, and she's Scottish), but I was too buzzed to notice.

Some might argue that when it comes to keeping up with the Joneses in terms of dancing, I'm more likely to give Tom than Catherine a run for their money. But you never know. If I keep 'step, ball, kicking' my way across that church hall and 'toe, heel, toe, heel, gliding' between the piano and the radiator, I might yet get that call from the West End.

Well, if Claire Sweeney can do it, it can't be that hard, can it?

COMEDY moment of the week: slipping on a banana in Sainsbury's car park. Oh, how the other shoppers laughed.

Updated: 11:37 Monday, January 23, 2006