It was love at first sight. I had just unsuccessfully tried on an ill-fitting top (damn those post-Jesters curries) in a high street store and was browsing the accessories in despair. Then, out of the corner of my eye I spotted the new love of my life – a pair of little black stiletto boots.

The attraction was instant and I felt myself drawn to the shelf where they sat, eagerly promising me all the joy in the world if I would just try them on. I picked them up and obeyed them; they fit like a prettier and more practical version of Cinderella’s (dubiously fragile) slippers. I checked the price tag and joy of all joys - they were in the sale! Half of this week’s budget, but a complete bargain none the less. After a brief, not to mention biased financial shuffle, I had made up my mind: the boots were mine!

As I walked out of the shop and along the street I caught other women glancing at me and the large bag swinging by my side. I was puzzled at first but then realised that the looks were ones of envy; they could sense my delight and wished that they could share in my exhilaration. I went merrily on my way, smirking slightly at being the luckiest woman in Southampton, and the smile stayed on my face until I got home to be greeted by my (male) housemate.

Now, he just happens to be the only person aside from myself and my bank-manager who knows the state of my account, and so when I walked in the door swinging my shoe bag I was greeted by a frown. I told him about the contents of the bag, he asked me how much they cost, I reluctantly informed him. This resulted in an impressive jaw-drop moment whereby my only option was to take my new babies out of their box and explain, "look how pretty!"

After all, this is what it comes down to – just how pretty those naughty little indulgences are. In my case, this does not apply to dresses, jewellery or handbags; just shoes (or boots, sandals, or those really cute wellies I bought for Reading Festival). I truly do believe that it is an addiction; an addiction to the elation of buying and wearing new shoes. The addiction is to the happiness I gain from the whole experience - and who am I to deny myself happiness?

Of course I’ll feel guilty when I get my bank statement next month, but then I’ll take out my boots, put them on and strut aroud just to remind myself of how good they look, and all the remorse will disappear. It’s comparable to eating chocolate – I feel guilty but it just tastes so damn good that the guilt is soon drowned in the chocolaty goodness.

Maybe this month I will treat shoe shops as though they were mini portals to Kabul, but I have that sneaking suspicion that when I’m in town and walking around West Quay my eye will be caught by a little pair of red pumps or suede kitten heels and I’ll fall in love all over again.