Britain Has Wrecked My Feet

Sunny Fountain Feet

My favorite parts of my body, from an aesthetic viewpoint, are my feet and ankles. They are shapely and delicate, and the color of fine porcelain. I am an 18th century gentleman’s wet dream–as fair of ankle as they come.

Or at least I was. Then came Dundee, a city whose public transporation system is only slightly less complicated than separating salt out of a bag of salt and sugar. With Dundee came The Hill. The ten miles or more a week that I walk leave blisters, which become calluses, which peel off, leaving my lovely feet cracked and peely and decidedly not attractive.

I should strive to be vain about a body part that is less functional: perhaps my earlobes, or maybe appendix.

On the other hand, perhaps my new relationship with the buses in Dundee (a necessity because of strained extensor tendons in my left foot, a souvenier of The Hill) will allow my feet will return to their former glory.

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Britain Has Wrecked My Feet

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