Sole Man

Well it’s day two and I have just thirty minutes with which to write something, anything, before we go to do the Good Neighbourly Thing and wish some of the villagers a Happy New Year.  One of these villagers is my age and still living at home with Mummy, shutting himself up in his bedroom to listen to Texas and Dire Straits and French rock bands too crap to even be mentioned for hours on end and to look at whatever he looks at on the internet for another few hours on end (erm…). He once told me that he judges women by their footwear. That day I was wearing a pair of very old, very filthy flip-flops and I wondered what points I was scoring with him and what I would score on a smelly old trainer day, or a scuffed biker boot day or a designer high heels day. It seems a very unreliable method of choosing a mate – imagine you fall in love with a pair of five inch Jimmy Choos, only to discover the next morning that the feet that were wearing them spend 99,9% of their life in beaten up Havaianas and stained Crocs (as is the case with my footsies). Or vice-versa. Such deception, such a let-down; the relationship is doomed for catastrophe from the start. And does he also choose his shoes with the same criteria in mind? That some woman is going to choose him based on his shoes? I am going to make sure I get a close look at his feet when we go over for drinks this evening and try to imagine what he’s trying to project, what he’s revealing of himself, what kind of girl he might be looking for. I might even broach the subject and interview him – I’ll post the results on this blog for those of you (Dad) vaguely interested. Maybe it turns out it’s a really good way of finding your true love; after all, so many of us get stirred up by the sight of a strong chin, tight buttocks and come-to-bed eyes. Why not look at their feet? It’s just as arbitrary. I would have a real problem with this however and would no doubt still be single, pure as snow and still living with my mother as I really don’t like feet at all. Other people’s feet. Especially ones that are big and hairy. They revolt and scare me and I always used to arm myself with a pair of thick mens’ socks when going on dates. Now that I have my own pair of huge hairy mens’ feet at home, I have made a Sock Rule which my boyfriend is obliged to follow by the letter as I have threatened him with seperation, castration, and death by boiling if he so much as reveals his calcaneus cuboid. Keep those cuneiforms, naviculars and phalanges under wraps please. I do like my own feet though, a delicate size 3 and a half. They and my ankles are no doubt my favourite bits of me (hence the tendency to flip-flop), and little children’s feet are positively scrumptious, squeezable and very kissable. But big feet in size 8, 9, 10 or upwards – I can’t even bare to think about feet any bigger – the ones whose shoes take up half the living room when they’re kicked off  … yeurgch, run for the hills. So my neighbour’s method wouldn’t work for me. And I actually don’t think it works very well for him, which may also explain why he he spends so much time looking at whatever he looks at on the internet. Maybe he’s looking at shoes.


2 thoughts on “Sole Man

    • It didn’t enter my mind that people would find it and start to read it. My little blog is generally only read by my Dad and sister! The internet is a scarily fast space, I’ve just discovered. Wait a few days and I’ll put it back up.

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