Fancy Footwork

I have lived with a condition for most of my life but I have never openly discussed it. Mainly because I don’t want to be referred to as, ‘that foot nut guy’.
It’s got so that I am almost worried about it, so I’m going into print in the hope of discovering that I’m not alone. Or at least, if I am alone I can take some comfort from my uniqueness.
It’s not exactly an obsession but I have noticed that I form irrational opinions about people, especially women based on their choice of shoes or the general appearance of their feet.

The problem seems to be magnified by living in a tropical country, like Thailand. You see a lot of bare feet here. It’s the weather. People take their shoes off a lot in this country. Feet might seem like a bizarre thing to focus on in a city where you are surrounded by interesting sights and distractions but maybe this is just another example of things that bend your mind when you live in Thailand.
In the UK I would hardly ever take my shoes off in a public place. The beach was about the only place I remember ever voluntarily taking my shoes off in public. I theorise that this has something to do with me being insecure, deep down. You never know when you might have to run away or dropkick someone in the nuts. Both work better for you if you are wearing shoes.
I don’t wear open toed sandals or flip-flops for precisely these reasons, no matter how hot it is.

But never mind me and my own shoes, this article concerns other peoples’ feet and their shoes. Smart shoes, dirty shoes, cheap shoes, sexy shoes and no shoes. I have opinions on all of these.
Sitting in front of a line of dancing girls in a Pattaya go-go bar one evening, my mate Mike asked me which of the dancing girls I thought was the most attractive. He had clearly been studying them one by one for some time and had formed his own opinion. I had just been sitting there taking in the big picture up until that point. Before I responded, I instinctively looked ahead and down. Then allowed my gaze to drift slowly upwards while I examined each dancer in detail. Feet first, then legs, then the bit in the middle, breasts and finally faces and hair. A couple of them didn’t even get a cursory glance because they had horrible feet. I didn’t bother to look further than their ankles.
Mike was gobsmacked. “What the @#^& are you doing?” he asked, as if I was some kind of lunatic.

“Checking out the girls” says I.
“Look, people come to Thailand for the girls, you know?” said Mike authoritatively.
I knew that.
“They get mesmerised by those beautiful dark eyes, their long shiny black hair, their slim squeezable bodies. Why are you looking at their feet!!”
“Number 29” I announced in answer to Mike’s original question.
“Why?”
“She’s got great jugs” I lied.

Truth was, she had beautifully pedicured toenails and straight, not too long, not too short toes. Mike saw through my bluff instantly.
“You need help” he said.

We ordered more beer.

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