My feet and I have never had what you might call a close relationship. Not surprising since they are nearly 2 metres away at the other end of my body. On the other hand, I have never abused them, and they have never failed to fill my socks.
But with the present crisis, I can't even reach the dear darling pedal extremities (pace Fats Waller), so for the last 3-4 weeks my toenails, neglected and uncut, have been turning into eagle's talons. Today, however, all was resolved when a nice lady called Sharon, a chiropodist (podiatrist?), came to my house, sat before me and used all manner of implements to pare and shape my toenails. I tell you, when she had done, I was almost tempted to ask for some scarlet nail polish: they have never looked so beautiful.
It seemed a shame to put socks back on, but the weather has turned cold, and in any case there wouldn't have been anyone to see my feet if I had left them naked. But at least I've told you about my feet, and you can use your imagination for the rest.