Feet

I had my first ever pedicure last summer. I don't tend to go in for treating myself ... and besides, I have sensitive feet.
But my friends persuaded me to accompany them for a foot pampering session and so I blissfully sat in a comfy massage chair while my feet were gently jostled in a miniature bathtub of hot bubbly water, and a strange woman who could not speak English attacked my toes with sharp instruments of torture (which, strangely, did not hurt). After savaging my cuticles with a vicious looking pair of pliers, she rummaged around under my neglected nails, removing all manner of sediment which had been building up over the years (sock fluff, sand from the occasional beach holiday, food ...) and then, in a luxuriating frenzy of manipulation, she massaged ointment into the souls of my willing feet. Lastly, my nails were treated to the application of a coat or two of pretty coloured polish. If feet could smile, mine would have been grinning from ankle to toenail- tip.
We are now deep within the heart of a mean and never ending winter. Snow has fallen. Snow on snow on snow. On snow. During the day my feet are encased in boots. At night, when i remove them, my socks stick to the hard cracking craters which used to be the soles of my feet..
My nails look like yellowing lumps of a non-specific hard cheese, curled up and mouldy at the edges
My toes are sorry pale imitations of their summer time selves. flaccid and starved of vitamin D.
I could zest lemons with my soles. Like the Beltway, my heels have potholes.
And it doesn't look like spring will ever be here.
When it eventually arrives, with it's twittery birds and yellow daffodils, my feet will hide in shame.
Not for me the flimsy flip-flops or strappy sandals.
Maybe I should have my boots surgically implanted onto the ends of my legs. Or book twice weekly pedicures from now until September. Do they have pot hole filling machines in nail salons?