Jaye Marie and Anita Dawes

I am sitting here contemplating a toe. It is not a bad toe, as toes go. While it may never win a modelling contract, it would not call down squeamish aversion. Unless, of course, one is averse to toes in general. I know this toe intimately. Know its quirks and its uncanny talent for weather forecasting. I know its history. I am, after all, rather attached to it.

It seems somewhat out of place, even though it is in its accustomed position on the end of my foot. It should not, however, be visible. It should be decently clad. I am, after all, wearing shoes.

A cursory inspection shows I have walked the soles off them again. To be fair, the little ballerina pumps were never designed for rock climbing, tramping the moors or being put through the washing machine umpteen times, but then, what can you do? They’re comfortable…