I think my feet tell a story. I think, perhaps, everyone's feet do.
If they could speak to me, they would probably give me a 'talking to'. I've abused them you see; high heels, tight shoes, pointed toe style shoes, thin soles, flip-flops (called thongs in some countries), platforms, sling-backs, you name it and I guess I've squeezed my feet into them.
And the choice of footwear wouldn't be their only complaint. At times, I've made them walk long distances in charity challenge scenarios leaving them swollen, bruised, bereft of toenails (post Moonwalk) and even caked in mud.
This summer, and in previous hot weather, they swell up with fluid retention. I look down at them with disgust, where are those beautiful feet that some women have? Are you born with beautiful feet? Is there a nature versus nurture debate just for feet?
I think you have to be born with pretty feet. Alongside the abuse, I've spoiled my feet; Thai massage, pedicures, podiatry and those chaps that have all those tools that I can't remember the name of...that's it - chiropodists.
The saddest story from my feet would be when my big toes endured numerous ingrown nail operations in the eighties. There was limited bopping around to Wham at that time.
Let's finish on a high. What would they applaud me for? Well, they have seen some sights, they are well travelled and they can hope for more. If I was to choose a holiday for my feet, I would choose Italy I think, or perhaps, Australia. I think they would approve.