Feets

I have most surreptitiously take this photo of D's new slippers. He wears them often, so it's worth getting good ones. He also thinks his feet too large, but I think them lovely, always have. He also complains of his sweat being caustic, but I disagree in silent affection. I blame the cloth and metal for being oversensitive and reactive.

While there, (at the shop with the various woolen and sheep related stuff including slippers) I became entranced with a bit of sheepskin. Intending to share it with Moby, and warm my own metal backed chair. In turn. He avoided it suspiciously, but when we returned with groceries, he was innocently stretched out on it.

One year, I was perhaps 13, 14 years old, for Christmas, received no less than three pairs of slippers. I tried, but never wore any for more than a few minutes before kicking them off, my feet boiling. Socks are about all I can stand, and even then often pull them off, much preferring bare feet at home. I wear shoes otherwise, not one for flip-flops, needing well structured edifices for long walking. Given the choice, my feet are naked, even cold.

Old peasant stock, shows in my wide, tough feet. Easily callused, most happy naked, sturdy, though turned in, malformed by birth and ballet, not by flat, well fitted shoes.