"I don't know who invented the high heel, but all men owe him a lot," Marilyn Monroe once said. She didn't mention what women owe him, which, in my opinion, is a smack in the mouth. Yet despite the discomfort and long-term damage they might cause, I am addicted to the leg-lengthening effect that high heels seem to have.

My first hurdle, upon giving them up, was deciding what to wear instead. Trainers are out unless you're actually working out. Ballet pumps? A bit tired and ubiquitous. I decided on flat boots for posher outings and black Converse (OK, so they're ubiquitous too - but at least they don't make your calves look like milk bottles) for daywear.

Stepping out on day one, in a black floral-print dress and Converse, I had the sort of spring in my step that I normally don't experience until I've got home, kicked off my shoes and put on my sheepskin slippers. As I reached the corner, the bus sailed off down the street. No matter.

I could walk to my destination. And over the next few weeks, walk I did. I bounded up and down (down is particularly agonising in heels) escalators and stairs, I overtook swaths of pedestrians and instead of standing on the path in the park throwing sticks to the dog, I chased them with him.

While the balls of my feet didn't feel bruised and battered by the end of each day, I never quite lost the nagging lower back pain that sometimes afflicts me and which is commonly attributed to the way that high heels throw the body forward and create an overarched lower back.

My knees felt miles better, though. A day traipsing around in my beloved high-heeled boots could leave my knees hot enough to fry eggs on.