That Richard Grant fellow has been making fun of my crocs. If that weren’t bad enough, my colleague Maxine Clarke keeps having a go at me about my feet, insinuating that they resemble those of the Proudfoot clan (whose feet were memorably big, hairy, and on the table). Thus cornered, I can only come out fighting with a clog blog.
Mrs Gee is an insulin-dependent diabetic, so she has to visit a clinic every so often so that someone can squint into her eyes, to check for diabetic retinopathy, and poke needles in her feet, to check for diabetic neuropathy. (Really, it’s no fun being a diabetic). She’s also meant to take her feet to a pederast paedophile paediatrician resident of Portsmouth podiatrist, who will shave the excess bits and pieces off her feet (she usually has to accompany her feet, as they are reluctant to go on their own) and return them to a pearly-pink splendor that would shame a Botticelli Venus 
(I think Mrs Gee looks like that anyway, but then I’m biased, and anyway, she might be reading this).
However, since we’ve moved to the coast, the necessity for podiatry has receded. All that her feet require for tip-top, heel-to-toe exfoliative health (mine too, not just hers) is a barefoot walk on a sandy beach, and a paddle several times a week (weather permitting). No need for all that fuss and bother with alcohol, scalpels and discussions about where one might go on holiday or the fortunes of Norwich City FC. No wonder that Venus was born from the sea (though we don’t get scallops as big as that in Cromer – you’d probably have to go to Morston, for those).
All of which confirms me in my view that Homo sapiens is perfectly adapted for life on the beach. Although I don’t buy Elaine Morgan’s aquatic ape hypothesis for a moment, it remains true that no sooner had Hom. sap. evolved up country than he headed for the beach. Podiatry was a crutch, adopted when we made the ill-advised move back inland and adopted such bizarre accoutrements as shoes and socks, and could no longer walk barefoot on the sand as our ancestors once did.
So, Maxine, I shall continue to put my proud feet on the table. And, Richard, I shall wear my (sockless) crocs with equal pride. Evolution, you see, is on my side. It’s you that’s weird – not me!
adopted such bizarre accoutrements as shoes and socks, and could no longer walk barefoot on the sand as our ancestors once did.
... And, Richard, I shall wear my (sockless) crocs with equal pride.
Logic error. Core dumped.
What sort of paddle, Henry?
Too much information.
Much as when I wander from the misty fields of the Willamette valley, those from less verdant regions point toward my sandals and ragg wool socks and mutter. Wear your Crocs, Henry, but be wary of escalators.
@Jenny: you, my girl, have a filthy mind.
@Jon: Wise Old Seeress (probably Germaine Greer) she say – a woman needs a man like a croc needs an escalator. And as all women know, quality footwear has its sacrifices. Last summer while wearing my crocs I tripped on a kerbstone outside the Movieplex Cinema in Cromer (Gone With The Wind had just come to town and the place was mobbed) and knocked my big toe rather badly. That’s natural selection, man. Evolution like wot she is writ.
The sinus cavities also appear apapted to live by the sea.
I do buy the aquatic ape theory for a minute. We are, after all, just another species of ape. According to my personal Aquatic Ape Theory, homo sapiens (not australeopithicans) almost certainly evolved by the sea. My theory is based on Henry’s observation about feet, my own observation about sinuses, the fact that as a species we still prefer to live by the sea (see population densities), the sea is in our blood, somewhere beyond the sea she’s there waiting for me, and given a choice, most people will choose lobster over hamburger.
Mrs Gee knows you have a blog? What can I say. One of my friends has been blogging for about three years, she is retired and lives with her husband, also retired, and their two grown-up sons, and none of them has a clue that she’s been blogging every day during this time. She tells them she’s playing Solitaire. Her daughter however worked it out in about 2 days after the blog’s debut (but she is a journalist for a major TV station).
Ever tried Heelies, by the way?
Mrs Gee, a self-declared ‘blog widow’, is my sternest critic. Every so often she looks over my shoulder and says things like “You’re ranting again, dear: why don’t you stop doing that and put the chickens to bed?”
Hmm. Maybe I had better stop calling a certain person in our household the MP (Mad Professor, after the Allan Ahlberg poem “the mad professor’s daughter” [s] in our case). Just in case.