The loveliest feet.

I sat and looked intently at my feet tonight, not a part of my body to which I pay a lot of attention, and I thought to myself, “Wow, I wonder for how many miles you’ve carried me?” These are the feet that I was born with, that I learned to walk on and that have served me so well over the course of almost 62 years, although I didn’t use them much for the few number of months when I didn’t know what they were for. But I learned. These are the feet that have been encased in shoes for so much of their time, shoes that on some occasions were rather ill-fitting; feet that, when left unwashed while travelling for days, have emitted unpleasant odours; feet that have walked rough, stony paths and have sunk into the soft sand of Algerian beaches. I’m sure they are so pleased that between the ages of 4 and 14 I rarely wore shoes. Goodness, I love these feet. I’d better start to take better care of them because I still need them. I might invest in a proper pair of walking boots now that I’ve started to do a lot more walking in the hills over uneven ground. One thing I will not be doing is paying for them to be massaged by a stranger. I find the thought of having my feet touched by others quite unacceptable, disgusting even. I don’t even like touching them myself and the thought of me touching someone else’s feet is beyond imagining. Foul idea. These feet have walked the cobblestones of many European cities, kicked up clouds of dust in desert places in India and Africa and have propelled me through the waters of many swimming pools, seas and oceans. They have kicked me out of a good lot of trouble when required and carried me swiftly out of danger on too many occasions. God bless these feet: may they last me all my days. Now what other bits of me do you all want to hear about?