KEY POINTS:
If you are anything like I am, you will be really happy that Fashion Week is over for another year. It can be so repetitive and seems to drag on forever, especially if you aren't invited to anything.
I hate to compare apples to oranges but at least the annual Boobs on Bikes parade is a bit more inclusive.
As a professional journalist, however, I won't let my lack of attendance at the event, or my complete lack of understanding of the fashion industry in general, prevent me from criticising it.
My grandfather always used to say, "Criticise things you don't know about and you will come across as a lot more intelligent".
It's hard to argue with that. Grandad was never one for fashion, especially in his later years when he opted to wander around nude.
I have taken his advice but have opted to do a little research as well.
Those who attended Fashion Week would have witnessed some high-profile slip-ups on the catwalk and, in all but one case, the serious crash investigation team has identified the high heel as the culprit.
I wanted to test-drive a pair of high heels and experience first hand what many women go through on a daily basis when they slip into what most experts consider to be the most influential fashion accessory of the modern era.
Originally, the high heel was designed merely to flatter the female leg and to give the wearer a more elegant or ostrich-like body posture. But as time has passed, breakthroughs in foot binding have allowed the high heel to do far more than that.
It is well documented that the foot contains more bones than any other part of the body and many local fashion designers, in conjunction with an acupuncturist from Howick, have learned that by adding pressure to the right bones in the foot they are able to accentuate a model's cheekbones.
With an amateur model this can come across as a grimace, but a model with at least a brown belt in karate and trained in catwalk technique is able to focus that energy around the cheekbones to give her the full package when on the catwalk.
With the aid of a fish-slice and some lubricant from the guest bedroom, I went about getting myself into a pair of my wife's high heels.
This was a timebomb situation and the clock was ticking.
She would be home soon and the last time she caught me wearing her satin boob tube we ended up in marriage counselling, when funnily enough we were told to "walk a mile in each other's shoes".
A good 25 minutes later I had conquered them, although the bulk of my foot was still hanging out of the back of the heels like a large dog roll on the back of a supermarket shopping trolley.
However, at the business end of the shoe I was getting an idea of what wearing high heels was all about.
I was in a lot of pain, my toes mashed and folded over each other like a bag of crinkle-cut oven fries squashed at the bottom of the freezer.
I also experienced a pins-and-needles sensation in the soles of my feet, best described as being like somebody actually pushing pins and needles into the soles of my feet.
But on a positive note I was also getting that warm sensation in my cheekbones.
If I were able to take my feet off with a hacksaw and shoot them at great speed towards each other in the Hadron Collider, I doubt whether their molecular structure would be as drastically transformed as when I attempted to stand to see if I could actually walk in high heels.
I put some weight on my feet, and my toes began to pulsate and turn a newborn-baby kind of purple. My ankles quivered as my full weight was applied to the thinnest part of the shoes.
I gently applied more weight and thought that if I mastered this then my new party trick could be the 100kg man in the kitchen who can stand on a pair of champagne flutes.
I focused on a spot at the far end of the room, wiped the sweat from my upper lip, and shuffled a foot forward.
Like Tom Cruise in Born on the 4th of July, I was determined to learn how to walk again. Then I heard the front door open. I froze. My wife was home.
She entered the room just in time to see me collapse through the ranchslider we installed to give us the ultimate in indoor-outdoor living.
I lay on the deck in a pool of blood, some of it coming from my toes which had by now exploded like overcooked saveloys, the rest from puncture wounds from thousands of shards of "safety" glass.
Looking up I said: "Hi honey, do my feet look fat in these shoes?" After a quick trip to A&E it was another visit to marriage counselling, and that concludes my Fashion Week.
