Slipping the long, black, high heeled boots on I did a quick twirl in front of the mirror.
'They're gorgeous', I sighed.
I was out shopping for a new pair of shoes to wear to my friend Lucy’s 21st birthday party that night.
I already knew what I was wearing to the bash: trendy shorts, fishnet tights and a slinky black top.
In truth I was a bit of a shoe addict as I owned over a hundred pairs already. For me, the rush of a shoe purchase was addictive.
But I liked a bargain and at just £25 these boots weren’t going to break the bank.
"I'll have them," I grinned to the assistant.
A couple of hours later, I arrived at the party with my son Josh, 7, in tow.
“Your boots look great,” said my friend Emma, 26, as we chatted over a glass of wine.
But after a couple of hours I started to feel my legs getting all hot and sticky.
It felt as if my skin was on fire underneath my new boots.
But not wanting to miss out on the festivities, I decided that I was just overreacting and I was hot because of all the dancing.
No pain, no gain.
So I joined in with the Hokey Kokey and tried to forget about my burning feet.
After the party Josh and I went to stay at Emma’s for the night as she lived close by in Chadderton, Oldham.
I tucked Josh into bed and went into the bathroom and unzipped my boots.
As I eased the shoes off my feet I could see that my legs were bright red underneath the fishnet tights.
It looked like I had suffered some sort of reaction to my new boots.
What I had thought was sweat on closer inspection was a layer of pus that had oozed from my legs.
Shocked, I went downstairs and sat in the living room to try and relax.
But I started shaking and felt feverish and light headed.
I decided that I would try and nap in the armchair until daylight and I fitfully dozed for a couple hours.
But during the night I felt worse and worse.
My lower legs swelled up to twice their normal size and were red hot to the touch.
At 7am I tried to get up from the chair.
Suddenly everything went black as I fell unconscious.
When I came back round I sat on the floor for several minutes trying to get my bearings.
I fumbled for my mobile phone and gave my dad Michael, 49, a call.
“Dad I think I’ve had an allergic reaction to my boots – I think I need to go to hospital,” I blurted out.
I could hear how silly it sounded and he chuckled before agreeing to come and pick me up in his car.
I went to the bathroom and ran a cool bath in an attempt to soothe my skin.
My tights were welded stuck to my crusty, sticky legs and I couldn’t get them off.
So I sat in the bath with my tights on and slowly peeled them away from my skin.
Stepping out of the bath I gingerly towelled myself off and dressed in baggy trousers and Emma’s purple slippers.
When dad arrived half an hour later he looked at my legs in horror.
“You are going to hospital right now,” he ordered, scooping up Josh.
When we arrived at The Royal Oldham hospital Dad grabbed a wheelchair and pushed me through to see a nurse.
I felt myself start to pass out again so I leant my head between my knees.
All sorts of worst case scenarios were rushing through my mind.
What on earth was wrong with my legs? Would they have to be amputated?
“You won’t be going home today,” the triage nurse told me as I was whisked straight into the ward and hooked up to an intravenous drip.
Within ten minutes of arriving at the hospital I was lying on a bed with antibiotics being pumped through me.
Doctors told me that I had suffered from an allergic reaction to my new boots – possibly something in the black dye.
The allergic reaction had caused cellulitis, a bacterial infection of the skin, which had gone straight into my bloodstream.
If I hadn’t gone to hospital when I did who knows what would have happened to me.
I stayed in hospital for eight days while doctors tried to get the infection out of my body with antibiotics and steroid creams.
When nurses redressed my bandages my legs looked terrible – all red and raw, with chunks of diseased skin peeling off in clumps.
One friend who came to visit me in hospital commented that my feet looked like they had been dipped in battery acid.
When I went home, things didn’t get much better as it took several months for my legs to heal.
My feet were wrapped in bandages and dressed daily by a district nurse.
I had to use crutches to help me walk, and slippers were the only thing that would fit over my feet – I even had to wear them during my shifts as a hairdresser at a local salon.
"Bit of a change from your usual heels," my clients giggled.
I wasn’t allowed to get any type of liquid near my feet so baths and showers were out of the question.
I barely slept for six months as at night my skin itched intensely while the wounds healed over.
Now though, I’m back to my normal bubbly self and remarkably there are no scars on my legs.
But I do have one lasting scar.
I’ve gone from being a shoe addict to hating shoe shopping with a passion.
Buying new shoes is a terrifying experience as I worry that I will have another allergic reaction.
I reckon I might be the only women in Britain who hates shoes shopping!
(ends)