When contemplating a potential squeeze, it is said that a woman can quickly and reliably assess a man’s socioeconomic suitability simply by casting her eyes downwards – all the way to his shoes. What a crass criterion that is, the equivalent of gauging a woman by her dress – when surely it’s what’s inside that counts.
Now that the flip-flop season is upon us, male feet are enjoying their fleeting moment in the sun. They spend most of their working lives festering invisibly, aggregating a carapace of tough, deadened skin. Once freed from footwear, a set of leathery soles can be rather satisfying. It feels primevally manly to stride barefoot through the park without flinching every time you tread on a twig.
Yet untamed feet are apparently even less appealing to the opposite sex than cheap, ugly shoes. Once, trying to decipher Pete Doherty’s diaries, I read out to my girlfriend a description of his “cheese-grater feet” – and she retched. Apparently, when under the covers, the friction of a butchly calloused foot playfully scraping against your assiduously depilated legs is one of life’s more nauseating sensations. So it would be rude not to sand down the rough bits.
Pedicures can be pleasant, but while you’ll emerge with buffed nails and trimmed cuticles, they don’t always slough off the dead protein. Much cheaper to buy a pumice or equivalent
–Alida’s foot file, £15.95 from Amazon, is excellent – and do it yourself. Once the skin is shed, moisturise. You will have feet so smooth, even the most fastidious bedmate will thrill to their touch. Just tread carefully in the park.