I can’t understand people that don’t like feet or have a phobia of them. They’re pretty important things feet. Imagine not having any. You’d fall over all the time for a start. Buying shoes would be a waste of time. Measuring things would be difficult. And for men, no one would know how to make inappropriate assumptions about your penis size. See? Feet are brilliant. They also rhyme with wheat, treat, beat and street, so if you don’t like them you’re probably odd.
I love my feet. Its not often people harp on about their feet but as a diabetic I have to get them checked a lot because apparently they can fall off or explode or something if you don’t look after them. I never really look after mine but they have done pretty well by themselves over the years. They’ve trodden on lots of sharp things like rocks and bees, walked me all over the world, did a little bit of damage to people during kick boxing and I can use the right one to pick things up off the floor. Yes I can. Not many things mind you. And not when I’m drunk. I have also danced on them a lot and despite them easily comprehending the sideways moonwalk, the backwards one still evades them. Idiots.
After Glastonbury my feet hate me. They are covered in horrible blisters, cuts and bruises that only come with hiking them around in wellies all day shifting six tons of mud with your feet. I then worsened the situation yesterday by wearing birkenstocks which despite all their trendy connotations, appear to be built to tear huge strips of the sides of your lowest appendages with every step you take. Consequently today I have been trying to work out how not to use my feet to get anyway. I was unable to crawl onto the tube. I can’t walk on my hands so getting from the tube home was a feet torture fest and I daresay doing stand-up later without using my feet will be difficult.
So I am left to just keep using my feet until they break which will make the doctors sad. Stupid feet. I hate feet. Wish I had wheels. No wonder people hate feet. Let’s all swap our feet for fins or blocks of steel or gerbils. Bah. Feet.
I love my feet too, except when I don’t. I love them so much I’ve had pretty pictures of cherry blossoms tatooed on them. This is partly because I like cherry blossoms and partly because, in their previously unadorned state, my feet resembled small pudgy floury baps, whilst at the same time managing to have big toes that look like little men with round hairy tummies. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against little men with round hairy tummies, but it’s not a look a lady usually goes for whilst wearing sandals. As a general rule of thumb (just to bring the hands into it so they don’t feel completely left out), if my feet are happy then I am as pleasant a person as you could ever wish to meet. If they are tired or sore, stay the f*ck away from me or someone may die.