A missive from my holiday!

Hang onto your knotted handkerchief...

This holiday is about feet. Well, not entirely. But more than I might have anticipated when I was, say 19. When holidays were all about boozing by night, slathering yourself in oil by day and discussing who you wanted to get off with.

Fancying waiters! Remember that? A prime holiday custom in the late 20th century.

Back then, you’d occasionally overhear ‘old’ people (ie the age I am now) bemoaning their holiday ailments and mostly it’d be their feet. Corns, calluses, bunions. ‘Kill me if I ever become like that,’ I’d murmur.

I have become like that. Witness: ‘This cream’s really good for avoiding cracked feet!’

You wouldn’t have heard such an announcement ringing through the holiday apartment in 1983. Or: ‘I’m getting in the sea. It’s really good for my feet.’ Because back then, our feet were young and relatively attractive and rarely did anything untoward. We could mistreat them horribly - cramming them into punishing footwear and frying them like a couple of eggs on a hotplate. In 1993 I traipsed all over the dusty towns and villages of New Mexico - in mules.

And you know what? Nothing bad happened!

Nowadays, haul your trotters away from their home environment and stick them on a beach in the 29 degree heat - and how are they going to thank you? By blistering and puffing up, like a couple of hot little soufflés.

And I don’t mean ‘hot’ in a good way.

Suddenly, toenails that behaved perfectly nicely at home start to ingrow agonisingly. And the worst of it? As previously mentioned, holiday feet crack - like a wonky pot placed hopefully into the kiln at your first ceramics class.

Is this what growing old is like? We literally start breaking apart? There are positive aspects, sure - like your leg hair barely growing at all, and being less of a people pleaser (although, to be honest, I still want to please about 98% of people).

Once, in southern France, Jimmy’s arches somehow suddenly collapsed. No one could understand why. But The Fallen Arches of Aix-en-Provence entered our family folklore.

Less dramatic - though still painful - a fat splinter forced its way into my foot yesterday. When I say splinter I mean a wedge of wood, lodged into the region between ankle and heel (hankle?). I’ve made a fuss of it, to gain sympathy and to get Jimmy back for the fallen arches drama of 17 years ago.

Oldies abroad. Troublesome feet not pictured (thankfully)

Meanwhile, on this holiday he’s taking footcare seriously, having bought some apparently excellent nail clippers in a little Spanish town.

J: ‘These clippers are amazing.’

Me: ‘Remember we’ve only got carry-on luggage so you won’t be able to take them on the flight home.’

J, deflated: ‘Oh yeah.’

Me: ‘But you could post them to yourself.’

J, brightening: ‘You know I think I will!’

Me: ‘Imagine how exciting it’ll be when they arrive in a jiffy bag in Glasgow!’

J: ‘YES!!!’

Dear God, is this what we’ve turned into?

Many years ago I’d have been clattering about drunk in mules and mocking people who went on about their ailing feet.

Shamefully, that’s the girl I once was.

But not any more. See that lady in a Spanish supermarket, shouting, ‘Oh there’s PG Tips and LOOK GRAB SOME OF THAT OINTMENT!!!’

That’s me.

Love,

Fiona xx

PS In book news, you can still order my latest novel, The Woman Who Ran Away From Everything right here! And you can pre-order my festive novel, ‘Tis the Damn Season, right here!