ON FEET

I really like the look of my feet at the moment. 

When I lived in Surry Hills, I rarely saw the things.  They were usually encased in socks or pantyhose and then shoved into sturdy walking boots, or business pumps or joggers or party shoes.  I’m not saying I didn’t care about them, mind you. They were coddled with high quality wool or cotton socks, then spoiled with leather-only uppers and linings in shoes - none of that plastic. They were, in addition, supplied with orthotics to defend them against the unyielding concrete pavements of Surry Hills. 

But the poor things certainly never saw the sun.  To be honest, I can’t really remember what they looked like then.  I paid them no honest attention at all. I know they were long, straight and narrow with high arches: they always have been and still are. I seem to remember them as white, with pinkish bobbles on the toes and heels where shoes touched, and occasionally they got blisters.

Now, I notice them. I enjoy catching sight of them twinkling along the deck or kicking the sand or splashing in the water or even resting in the saloon. They are usually bare, free of cotton or wool. They are tanned.  The soles are not really tough, as I wear thongs or crocs when I am moving around the boat or on rocks or coral, but they do have a sturdy functional sole.  They look sinewy and healthy.



Dean working on production of Happy Feet at Great Keppel island



I don’t think I am developing an auto-erotic foot fetish late in life.  I think I am just pleased that my feet seem to be so happy.