The fulcrum of balance, the height of the heel, the taper of the heel, the point of the toe, and the unity of all of these distinct parts with that je ne sais quoi that elevates a good shoe to the realms of footwear greatness. High heels are a thing of beauty. And I was allowed to enjoy them.

A friend of mine was running a class to help women to walk properly in their heels. It would appear that high heels can be quite damaging if walked in incorrectly. And there was no shortage of women and high heels gathered in this room to practise the art of perfect perambulation.

But the question is this: are high heels symbols of feminist emancipation, a live example of the ability contemporary womanhood has to express its own sense of innate self, to engage with an intrinsic sense of sensuality and sexuality and finally feel in control of who they are? Or are high heels still at the very heart of sexual objectification, a ridiculously impractical proposition, a misogynistic product created by men to torture women's feet whilst at the same time titillating the male voyeur?

It's a serious question and not one I had asked myself in all the years that I had appreciated the feline femininity of the elongated leg afforded by the high heel. How can a woman feel good about herself when she has to hobble around in narrow, toe-crushing fillets of footwear? Yet many of the women I talked to expressed how sexy they felt when they had their heels on. I wondered whether that wasn't down to some weird sexual howlround – women felt sexy in heels because men told women that they looked sexy in heels, which meant women wanted to wear heels, which in turn stimulated men's enjoyment. And so the vicious, foot-mangling cycle continues.

For the first time in my life the anachronism of high heels occurred to me. Starting with a blank sheet of paper, would any women ever design a high heel? Would they ever think it practical and comfortable? I think not. And much as I would be sad to see them go, it became quite clear to me, surrounded by a hotchpotch of high heels and honeys, that there is still quite some way to go in the emancipation of womanhood.

The burden of parenthood is letting them go

It's not easy being a parent. That is self-evident. It's slightly easier being an uncle. There is an art to being an uncle. My cousin Aman and his wife Surjit have just witnessed their third and last-born leave their Glasgow home, heading east for the bright lights and painted ladies of Edinburgh. (Well, the Medical School at any rate). The eldest, now Dr Kohli, has found herself in a wee hospital job in Inverness and is loving it, her heart truly being in the Highlands. The tricky middle child (and I speak from experience) is progressing nicely towards the title of "Dr", balancing her hard-working diligence with a menacing attitude on the hockey pitch and her ability to drink second-row forwards under most tables. She's her father's daughter. And now the baby has flown the nest. My nephew is off to follow his sisters.

In five years' time there will be a triumvirate of Dr Kohlis, and they will all call me uncle. I can't help but feel deep pride. They're lovely kids, kids who have been a constant in an ever-changing world for me. I didn't have any of the crappy jobs to do for them: no nappies changed, no feeding to enforce, no vomit to avoid, no having to lecture them about partying, no having to chastise them when they were caught partying after the aforementioned lecture. I got to hang out with them at parties, smuggle them mildly alcoholic drinks and make their friends laugh without being too much of an embarrassment. They would use me as a preliminary sounding board about major life decisions, rehearsing their arguments with me before going off to debate with their parents. Aman and Surjit must hate coming back to an empty house, they must hate having to accept the inexorable passing of time that sees bairns turn into adults who travel the world, even as far as Inverness.

This is the burden of parenthood, a burden I have yet to endure. The art of being an uncle is to be able to enjoy the little victories of midnight texts and Facebook messages from the adults you have loved since they were kids.

On a roll after my guilty pleasure

There are few things I enjoy more when I'm back in Glasgow, as I was last week, than one of my guiltiest pleasures. I am seldom happier than when I'm shoving a roll and tattie scone and bacon into my oversized coupon. I know it's not good for me, I know it's a car crash of carbs, but I love it. You can take the boy oot eh Glesga...