I'm sure you're dreaming of me telling you the story of the Higgins.

Last September, I woke up in the middle of the night, flooded, as if the giant aquarium in my bedroom, home to a family of piranhas, had broken and spilled onto my bed. However, I soon realized that I was in the middle of a wet dream.

When we opened our shop on rue Beaurepaire nearly seven years ago, we didn't have a penny to our name, and in fact it was I who finished the renovations./p>

Alone in the middle of the parking lot, in my future husband's white corvette with red leather interior, I called out for some kind soul to come and administer first aid. I could still hear a vague rattle emanating from his mouth. Seeing that no one was coming, I began to give him improvised mouth-to-mouth on his chapped lips.

When we receive our beautiful little shoes, they arrive in boxes, very large boxes which, once emptied, are of little use to us and even become cumbersome.

A shoe is always a story connected to a feeling, a moment in my life, a work, a song, a film, a person. I have to connect all the dots in a drawing in order to make progress and let a figure appear, and that's absolutely essential because that's how I weave my life together.

It's back-to-school, damn it. Damn, because when you have to get ready to put your hands, feet, neck and whole body into a new year, you have to be prepared or, on the contrary, completely relaxed to stand up and face an opponent that may seem out of proportion.

At some point in our lives, we all come across a work of art. A record, a film, a band, a painting, a book, an author. It can be instantaneous, it can take time, it can be dazzling or insidious.