Lucky me: the Missus spent a good half an hour or so earlier this evening ministering to my poor feet. I won't trouble you with the exact nature of the ministrations, but suffice to say that they left the nether parts in question feeling positively fresh, if not young again.
Sam Beckett is very good on feet, especially when they're stuck in boots. One only has to think of Estragon in Godot, of course, but they pop up all over the place - I seem to remember Belacqua moaning about how his are ruined in a couple of the early short stories. I sometimes feel that way about mine, particularly when they start to cramp up, but at this point in time I feel almost reconciled to them.
One of the many joys of living in a tropical climate, by the by, is not having to wear socks, or shoes for that matter, too much of the time. Free your feet and your mind will follow, say I (since I can't recall anyone else ever making this pithy observation.)
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