Twinkle Toes

I was sitting in the garden with the kids this afternoon, enjoying a picnic. Before you picture one of those ‘lifestyle’ catalogue scenarios where we are all dressed in white cotton, and eating home made quiche off Cath Kidston plates, I ought to qualify the term ‘picnic.’ The food consisted of a couple of mouldy cheese sandwiches and a few bags of crisps, with a carton of tartrazine-rich orange drink each. The defining factor, though, was that we were sitting on an outdoor rug. Therefore, we were technically having a picnic. I have recently made the seismic shift into flip-flops on account of the lovely weather, so I stretched my legs out on the rug towards my son. The expression on his face can only be described as abject revulsion, as he regarded my newly-emancipated toes. At first, I thought it could just be an understandable reaction to the cheese sandwiches, but no, apparently the taste of mouldy cheese was nothing compared to the sight of my hooves. Eventually, he cleared his throat and asked me in his most polite voice if I would mind moving my feet away from him, as they were putting him off his food. I would like to be indignant about this, but unfortunately he does have a point - they do look rather reptilian. Therefore, I have decided to tackle my own pedicure tonight. For someone who used to be very high maintenance, this is a bitter pill to swallow. In a previous life, I had well-tended toes and luscious acrylic fingernails with tips so white they looked like they had been dipped in Tippex. They were absolutely rock hard, and if anyone needed to take a door off its hinges, I was the woman for the job. Sitting back in a comfy lounger every month, leafing idly through glossy magazines while someone made your fingers and toes pretty, was hard to beat. Ah, memories......
Anyway, I have a bottle of Mâcon-Villages Chardonnay (£4.99 Ocado) chilling in the fridge which is crisp, peachy and unoaked, and should keep me company tonight. H is out until late, which is good, since I reckon that the ‘secrets of the boudoir’ should remain just that. I’m not sure that watching someone clip their toenails is conducive to great marital relationships (but then neither are scaly feet). A home pedicure isn’t quite the pampering experience of a nail salon, but I can think of one advantage – I was never offered a glass of wine at the salon.