At a garden party last northern spring, I had a minor epiphany. All the men in attendance wore sandals and all of us had grim, pale, gnarly feet. “Are men ... ugly?” I wondered. “Look at the ladies’ feet. I’m booking a pedicure.”
At home, I asked my wife how to book a pedicure, and if I really needed one. “Yes, I’ve been telling you for years,” was the reply. In the end, I just bought foot balm (6 per cent uric acid), which succeeded only in making me feel like a pensioner. Cheap, though.
