Last week I was visited by a chiropodist. In all my life, I never suspected that such a thing would happen – and it took months of persuading. One of the results of immunotherapy is muscle inflammation and a consequent inability to reach my toes. My wife is an angel in every respect but one: toes. She doesn’t do toes. Everyone has their breaking point, and my toes are her Rubicon.
As a result, weeks passed and my toenails continued to grow until they resembled the fingernails of Cixi, the late Empress of China. She carried on the ancient tradition of long nails denoting status and wealth. Her fingernails were six inches long. My toenails were getting there and denoted nothing but holes in my socks.
But a chiropodist? I’m reluctant to get my hair cut or pay for a dentist. Toenails for God’s sake.
Anyway, the great day came. A shiny white car pulled up outside the house. A trim, clever-looking blonde stepped out and immediately reassured. The white uniform helped. Within minutes I was putty in her hands.
She admired my feet and then set to work with her various implements. Nails cut. Job done? No, not at all. This was but the beginning. They were next filed and buffed, the crevices between my toes explored, rough skin sanded, and each foot gently oiled. A grown man purring with pleasure. This was indeed the life. What had I been missing all these years?
Buffed feet for one. I now have buffed feet.
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