Monday, 12 March 2018
There I was the other day lying on my bed looking at my feet; when suddenly one of them started to talk.
At first, I was afraid ... I was petrified ... They started singing "I will survive."
I did not know what was happening. Then one of them spoke and said to me, "It is all right you lying there doing nothing. But it is us who do all the work for you.
"From the moment you get up in the morning we have to carry your heavy weight. Going up and down the stairs, walking down the street, or running for the bus. It is us who do all that for you.
"Even when you are driving the car, it is us who have to push on all the pedals whilst you sit there doing nothing."
I could not believe my ears. My feet were talking to me and my ears were confusing my brain.
Then the left foot continued, "You never think about us, do you? Spending all day in the dark not knowing what is happening out there. Held captive in your tight shoes until it hurts. And having to smell your smelly socks. Why don't you change them at least once a week?"
"Yes, that's what I hate the most," said the right foot, "being in the dark. I am claustrophobic you know! Have you ever thought of that? And what's worse is when you play football. The two of us are running faster and faster not knowing where we are going when suddenly, out of the blue, I get hit in the big toe by this hard football. See if you like it if they blindfold you and hit you on the head with a football!"
For a moment I sympathised with my feet. Then one of them said, "What I hate the most is the funny jokes you humans make about us feet. Like putting one's foot in one's mouth when one of you says something stupid."
"Yeh ... or put your best foot forward," said the other, "do you realise how divisive that statement is. Which foot is the best, I ask you? Do we not both serve you well?"
"And another one ..." interrupted the other foot, "I hate when you say someone has put his foot in it. What do you mean by that exactly? How about when you humans literally put your foot in a dog's doo doo? How are we to feel about that? And the smell we have to endure!"
"And there's more," piped in my left foot, "it's when you all talk fancy in French and use phrases like faux pas. What has the wrong father to do with us feet? Are you calling us illegitimate?"
"Or when you say pas de deux ... what has the father of twins to do with us?" cried out the right foot.
"And remember that day when you stupidly walked around the house in bare feet and you stepped on a Lego brick the children left in the playroom? Oh ... the pain from that Spanish Inquisition instrument of torture ..."
I suddenly relived that pain again as a shiver ran down my spine. I could not believe my feet were speaking to me. I vowed not to have cheese and port again before going to bed.
How about you? Do any of your body parts talk to you?