Small dogs, high heels: A combination fashion statement we can blame on a certain Dorothy Gale of Kansas? Maybe.
But things have changed since Judy was a girl/alive and these days any fashionista worth her size zero skinny jeans has downsized the dog - sorry Toto, you were looking chunky - and upped the ante with the heel.
And when I say "upped" we're talking heels higher than those freaky flying monkeys on Judy's diet pills.
These are statement shoes. Forget WOW factor, these shoes have WAG factor.
They say: "I have a heel like a rapier dagger, and I will use it if you so much as put one acrylic-nailed, french-manicured finger on my man."
They say: "Walk? I don't think so. Taxi!"
They say: "I over-compensate my low IQ with a sky-scraper high heel - is that a problem for you?"
But behind the botox their wearers say: "OMFG the pain! The pain! Amputate my feet!! F!F!F!"
These women aren't slaves to fashion - they're martyrs to it, the condition has a medical name: "Stilettotarsal" damage.
What unsympathetic columnists and men don't understand is that this condition isn't just fashion's frivolity, it's an addiction as dizzying and damaging as crack cocaine.
If these women could walk away from the habit that will leave them crippled and penniless, then of course they'd do it faster than Dorothy could click her Ruby heels and take Toto home.
But they can't, and now they're injecting. That's right, botox for the feet has become a mainstream phenomena.
For a mere £300 you too can inject who-knows-what-crap into the balls of your feet and teeter around without feeling a thing. This week I was offered the chance to test the procedure out, but strangely declined.
Who wouldn't? What would make any sane woman want to pay for the privilege of freezing her feet with botox?
Well, my friend, these shoes are siren shoes, they are crafted by dark lord designers who seek to tantalise, tempt, exploit and torture unsuspecting females with their ever more terrifying footwear ranges.
[I do hope Mr Shoe Fetish isn't reading this.]
They conspire to seduce and then render their wearer paralysed and resorting to poking dubious cosmetic fluids into her feet.
The clue to this, aside from their obvious annihilation-of-all-comfort-aesthetic, is in the name.
"Monolo Blahnik" to those of sound mind evokes the slurred speech of a stiletto devotee botoxed to her eye-balls and raving madly in pain - but to the victim it is the sound of the shoe devil himself speaking in tongues, telling her if she dons this season's spiky orthopaedic prostitute shoes she'll look HOT.
Meanwhile the name "Jimmy Choo" not so subtly foreshadows the involuntary cooing these shoes provoke among the female population.
And make no mistake, they are beautiful: Sublimely crafted, everything about a pair of Choos is perfect, right down to the exquisite pain of wearing them.
At which point the "Oooooos" become "Owwwwwwws".