There’s an old children’s joke that goes: “Which would you rather be? Nearly drowned or nearly saved? Answer quickly!”
At speed, you might catch yourself saying “Nearly saved!” That’s the cunning plan from the person asking the question.
I found myself weighing up a similar conundrum last week.
A friend had texted to say she couldn’t meet me for coffee on Thursday.
“That’s okay, I’m getting my verruca microwaved,” I told her.
“Yikes,” she said, “Well, at least you’ll get a column out of it!”.
Only then the podiatrist rang to offer me laser treatment instead.
It felt a bit like that question: “Which would you rather be? Nearly drowned or nearly saved”.
Would you prefer a microwave or a laser? Which is the better option? Ah there’s the rub.
I pictured sticking my foot into the Sharp 800W model in the kitchen and emerging with a shrivelled baked spud for a foot.
I have a gem of a podiatrist. I agreed to the laser.
It turned out this was a new device and he was being shown how to use it.
As I lay there on the high seat, ignoring the smell of my own burning flesh, the woman who was showing him the wonderful laser kept telling him: “You’re doing really well, you’re doing great.”
It was more than I could do to keep my mouth shut.
“What about me? How am I doing? I’m the one being lasered?” I said.
They both burst out laughing.
Did I say I had a gem of a podiatrist?
In him I trust. But I did warn him he’d have to pay me this time.
The others in the office thought it was strange.
“You have a podiatrist?” they asked.
A year ago, it was the financial advisor.
“You have a financial advisor?” they asked.
And yes, Michael-of-these-very-pages-wife - if you are reading this, the little line on the pension graph is now going up, not down, hooray! Michael it’s all about “time in, not timing”.
When it comes to ageing it comes down to your feet, your eyes, your teeth and your bank balance.
I recommend getting your feet done. None of your namby pamby beautician stuff either.
Knives out!
After my first session, I walked away six inches shorter, on air and minus a few dodgy corns.
My podiatrist removes all the dead skin with a sharp scalpel.
“It’s like you’re peeling potatoes,” I tell him. “I can feel a Heaney poem coming on.”
“It probably is, only I’ve never peeled potatoes,” he tells me.
Afterwards he hoovers up the peelings with a Dyson.
I want to tell him that I have an ethical objection to Dyson - a big Brexiteer - but keep my mouth shut.
I have not looked at my foot since last week’s verruca laser-gate. I’d have to be Harry Houdini to get a squint.
The others in this house are snottery and refuse to look for me.
“No way!” they say, fleeing the room at the sight of a dangling sock.
It’s not like I’m asking them to squeeze a spot.
It’s strange to no longer have my little wart friend on my foot.
He has been there a long time… he had grown very attached.
I blame the swimming pool. For every yin there is a yang; for every joy there is a payback.
What surprises me is how many people retreat in disgust when you talk feet.
“Don’t, don’t, don’t,” they say, waving their hands and running away.
If you have read this far down the column, I expect you are not one of these.
Feet do not bother me. If you have ever been to Lough Derg and rounded the basilica for the umpteenth time before casting yourself down on your knees at the water’s edge and renouncing Satan, you will know about bare feet.
Amazing how many beautiful women have ugly feet – callused, cankered and twisted from stiletto heels; amazing how many plain-looking men have slender white feet marbled with veins blue as the Danube – straight out of the Pieta.
When my other half and I first got together years ago, he called me the beauty with Hobbit’s feet.
They are hairy and, as my father used to say, they have a firm grip on Ireland.
But they’re the family feet. I could spot a McCann foot a mile away.
I’m proud of them. And the laser? That was an adventure. It’s good to finally get a divorce from that verruca.
