"Can I" he said, "pop in for a cup of
"Well yes" said I "of course you can", not for a minute taking him seriously and labouring instead, under the illusion that he’d have to be feeling pretty parched to make a eighty mile round trip for a cup of
But pop in he did regardless. Wearing flip flops.
Now before I bring you kicking and screaming in front of the full yukky business of the evening, let me provide you with two pertinent pieces of information: namely that I have known said man for billions of years and don’t feel that we have yet reached the point where it will (ever) do to set aside social niceties and secondly that I don’t like men in flip flops when they are supposed to be fully dressed. In fact let me make myself abundantly clear: I don’t like men’s feet full stop and I’ve said it before and will say it again, I would rather boil my own head than suck a toe.
So anyway there he is in all his flip floppy glory and I can’t look at his face for wanting to drink in the full horror of his gigantum naked feet and he is rambling on and I’m not listening because how interested can a girl get in wheel bearings and then he asks a question in a tone that implies he is having to repeat himself and I say "Pardon?" and he says "I said, have you got any tweezers?", and I choke back relief, because he is of a persistent nature and could quite frankly be asking me anything from please lick my nose to would you like to marry me, but (phew) all he wants are tweezers and so I get up and wander about looking for a pair, wiping my brow in blessed relief and wondering if he has spotted a stray hair growing out of my chin or wants perhaps to yank a spiky feather out of one of my cushions.
But no, my darlings, no.
I hand him my precious gold tipped tweezers, sit down next to him and watch in vomit inducing wonder as he puts a flip flopped foot on to my lap and starts groping his toes, before using my tweezers to pull a bit of toenail off his big toe.
Euuuughhhhh times nine hundred and thirty three squillion when he puts the tweezers down and holding the toenail between his fingers, snakes his arm around my appalled shoulders and drops his bodily detritus down the back of my sofa. No really. He dropped a bit of his body down my sofa!
Now there is a toenail lurking in my plump upholstery, and readers, dear angelic readers, though I have held an investigation worthy of Sherlock Holmes, I can’t find it and I am suffering from a permanent state of domestic hysteria of which, I promise, you have never seen the likes.
Blasted stinky toe nail dropping men. They are of a smelly nature aren’t they? I do hope my little Finn doesn’t grow up into one.
Should you care to visit, do bring a magnifying glass, won’t you? It’s for your own good.