Yep, it seems wildly unlikely, but I haven’t got my dates mixed up and it’s no April Fool’s Day joke.
On a trip to the UK over the weekend as she brought the sprogs to see David become England’s most-capped player, VB wasn’t in her usual uniform of stupidly high shoes paired with a sombre-looking body con pencil skirt + shirt or a shift dress. Nope, she was togged out in slouchy boyfriend jeans… and flip flops.
Ok, she was still Pouty McPout, but it was a far cry from the rig-out she wore to an amusement park a couple of weeks ago, when she looked to be falling out of her skyscraper heels. Could it be that the woman whose hatred of flats is well documented has finally had to succumb to – gasp – comfort?! Suddenly my poor old feet feel much better about their dependence on bejewelled ballet pumps and Compeed blister plasters.
But before you go thinking that Victoria has finally copped herself on and given up wearing footwear that’s completely inappropriate for the occassion, I should tell you that she teetered onto the flight in L.A. in her standard garb of tight black pencil skirt and foot-high heels that necessitated using the kids as stabilisers.