A Toast

Aren’t feet funny? So many people hate feet, even their own. I have no problem with mine. I even think they are quite attractive – nice high arches, cute little toes, a neat turn of ankle. Mine are not particularly ticklish and I adore having foot-rubs. Some friends once got me an at-home reflexology session for my birthday. The evening light glowed pinkly through my window, Mozart played softly in the background and some silent (perfect!) lackey played with my feet as I lay back on the sofa with a Baileys. Bliss.
I often feel sorry for my feet, since I don’t pay any attention to them unless they are hurting. I am prone to ingrowing toenails (which sounds sooo unappealing but is in reality just uncomfortable) and every so often I cut my nails in the approved manner, but I don’t give them spas, I don’t massage them or give them pedicures and I only paint my toenails in summer. In my defence, I also don’t force them into impractical shoes or put them through too much trauma in terms of exercise. Which is a double edged sword as the less exercise I do the more weight they have to carry around. They seem improbably small for such a mammoth task. There’s an awful lot of weight pressing down onto an awfully small surface area. All those teeny tiny bones bearing the weight of my brain (the size of a planet). So, here’s to my plates, gawd bless them and all who sail in them.