There’s me a pucklie years back, lounging by a posho Sorrento pool.
Like the puddick in the poem, I was feelin’ a bittie cocky thanks to a John Lewis swimsuit and matching floaty wrap in brilliant turquoise blue. Costafortune.
I admit I occasionally keeked roon in the hopes of spottin’ an ancient millionaire or two aboot the place. Then my dearest, lifelong pal fair took the wind oot o’ my billowing sails. Comes she: “Do you ever go to the chiropodist?” Fit the?
“Why do you ask?”
Never one for hingin’ back, she oot with it: “I was just looking at your feet and thought…”
For flame’s sake! Well, two can play at that game, sunshine. Me, back o’ the net: “At least I’ve a’ my toenails,” she hosting only nine out of 10, thanks to an historic in-grower.
Losing my chiropody virginity
I ignored her advice to get my apparently horrendous feet seen to, although she was even there for me a coupla years later, my regular readers might recall, when I was too feartie to go to the doc masellie to have a big toe nail removed after a full supermarket metal basket slid off the hood of my grandson’s pushchair (I know – shouldn’t have been resting it there, but affa heavy) and smashed on to my sandalled taes.
Who in the world would choose to make dealing with affa feet their lifetime achievement?
Months later, when it transmogrified into a fearsome Jurassic fossil, I knew it had to be for the ootski. My ex-nurse mate held my hand and, hey presto, we were suddenly eeksie-peeksie – nine nails each. A draw.
Where’s all this tootsie talk going? Well, this week, at the grand old age of 73-and-a-third, I lost my virginity to chiropody. And fit a thrill it was. Avert your eyes if you’re of a sensitive nature.
Left walking on air
As you get older, toenails get thicker, more difficult to cut, especially if – like me – you can barely reach them. I don’t have the right clippers or scissors and live in constant dread of hacking more flesh than nail. So, a few weeks ago, I booked an appointment with a podiatrist – AKA chiromannie or wifie.
Who in the world would choose to make dealing with affa feet their lifetime achievement? The lovely Emma, fae Forres, that’s who. She made an al’ wifie very happy relaxing in a chair while she did for my taes what I’d been desperate to do for months.
Ken ‘is, she could even fit a fake nail to replace the missing one, although we agreed, for a wrinklie like me, that’s a podiatry bridge too far.
As we swapped goss, she went at my hard skin like one possessed, generating a fair snowstorm of gads-sakesness, then gently cut and shaped. Fit a fantastic job she did. I came out walkin’ on air. Fred Astaire, far are ye?
OK, it cost £35, but hugely worth it. See you in three months, Emma. As for my best pal; on our next holiday, ticky-bets I have bonnier feet than her.
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