Refused the wife’s offer to scrape my feet

LAST night my wife offered to scrape hard skin from the soles of my feet.

I refused, primarily because she wanted to do it while watching Emmerdale.

I also find the idea of tending to one another’s wonky bodies somewhat primitive: only a few short steps from the family group scouring each other’s scalps for parasites, like a chimp colony.

She may get bitten by the DIY surgery bug and whip out something important while I sleep.

If she can hurl a can of tomato soup during a heated “domestic”, removing an appendix would be a mere bagatelle. I thanked her politely, but pointed out that feet are important – without them, you topple over – and should be tended by a qualified professional, not someone who’s mustard with a spud-peeler.

“Like a chiropodist?” asked Julie. I was thinking more on the lines of a foot doctor.

It’s a sign of a stable, harmonious marriage, though. If more people pledged to love, honour, obey and tend to each other’s gammy feet, the divorce rate would tumble.

Newlyweds would be aware they were making a real commitment. They’d have to think long and hard about the state of each other’s feet.

I’m a believer, however, that every man should retain at least one little secret.

“You can hardly term the extent of a foot infection a ‘little secret’,” mocked the missus.

Maybe, but after 30 years of marriage it’s the only little secret I’ve got left.

By the way did you see the motorist found to be a staggering four times over the drink-drive limit?

His actions are only eclipsed by an

Australian woman charged after riding her horse to the off-licence while also four times over the limit.

A dusty, outback road does not have the same traffic volume as Norfolk’s A134, however. Only the odd kangaroo was in danger of being trampled.

I spent a portion of the recent Bank Holiday travelling behind a Ford Mondeo driven by an elderly gentleman probably called Norman.

He tootled along at 20mph, braked hard every time a vehicle appeared on the other side of the road and waited for minutes at junctions before inexplicably pulling out into the path of oncoming cars.

Norman had not partaken of alcohol, but he had devoured numerous travel sweets from a tin on the dashboards. Travel sweets are dangerous. I once overdosed on them and woke up in Rhyl.

There’s also the case of the abandoned, up-ended vehicle discovered with classical music blaring from its sound system.

The radio had probably been locked into heavy metal station Kerrang, but the driver switched to Classic FM shortly before fleeing the scene. Wise move. It sounds better in court.