I love boots. I own a lot of them, in fact probably enough to warrant calling it a minor obsession. I’m forever hawking for the ultimate boot. Once a year I buy – sorry – invest in a quality pair, generally from Italy. This year, after having been out on the town in boots with heels, only to face the fierce shortage of taxis in the Southern Highlands (and thus the possibility of a 2.5km walk home in said heels), I was on the hunt for a low-heeled variety. And found the perfect pair.

Brogue, buckles, calf-height, nipped-in ankle, low heel and grippy soul. I’m so in love with them, they haven’t been off my feet for more than a day.

Slightly dirty: showing the vestigial signs that they were recently christened on the dread floors of a working dairy.