Supportive Shoes.

I don't find feet particularly arousing. Unlike The Father, I do not have a foot aversion and so I have been known to be somewhat reprimanding when partners have attempted to slide betwixt my sheets partially dressed in socks. In fact, I've been fairly vocal when an incident of this nature has occurred in manner of, 'What the fuck are you trying to do to me? Turn me into an eighty-five year old? I. Don't. Sleep. With. Men. With. Socks. On.'

Having said that, and at the risk of offending some of my more freaky (if yer know what I mean) readers, I have got to admit that feet, themselves, do not make The Pant pant with glee. I firmly believe in the 'feet-should-be-seen-and-not-licked' mantra. Footsie-footsie, I imagine, is like blending two different types of Roquerfort with sulphur over a bunsan burner.

I'm just not that kind of girl. I have been known, I admit (with deep regret) that when I have been in an altered state of singledom (read, 'in a relationship that was an express flight to nowhere'), I have attempted to prove my commitment through the clipping of toenails, the filing of cracked heels and the loving application of Ingram's. All in vein, really, because approximately 8.7 seconds after receiving the humiliating treatment from me, this particular lover minced his socially acceptable feet right out the door and did not even once turn on his soft-as-a-newborn's-bottom heel for a backward glance. I've since become okay with that.

Upon reflection, I have found that, for the most part, I seem to have the ability to pick partners who share the same nonchalance for feet as I do. I remember asking one lover once...

The Pant: Ah, babe (not very creative in the pet name scores). I've had the most hectic day and my feet are killing me. Please won't you give them just a wee rub (offering large and suitably fruity smelling tub of Body Shop body butter)?

Ex-Lover: Not a fucking chance.

He didn't last long. Can't imagine why.

Now, you might be wondering why I woke up this morning and needed to discuss my incongruent beliefs of sex and feet. The truth is, I'm perplexed.

You see, My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire, who has more than the two nipples per individual quota, sent me this picture:

Yes. That's a third nipple in the middle of someone's foot.

So, friends. There is, after all, a need for supportive shoes. Not to mention, a new meaning to the whole 'foot in mouth disease'. Crikey.

The 'By Mistake' Steek.

We've all heard those infamous lies:

1) I didn't mean to,

2) It's not my fault,

3) I was drunk

and 4) It happened by mistake.

And we've heard the responses, either seething from our own lips or as bullets that are shot at us with such venom it's a miracle some of us are still standing (except for me, of course. I've never been cheated on. Or at least, I'm not aware of ever having been cheated on. And I don't cheat. Because infidelity is just not kiff):

1) You didn't mean to? YOU DIDN'T MEAN TO? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN YOU 'DIDN'T FUCKING MEAN TO'?

2) Whose fault is it, then, that you decided to take her home and tie her into a human pretzel?

3) You're often drunk around me. Does that mean you didn't mean all those things you did to me? LAST NIGHT?

and 4). A mistake? A mistake? A MISTAKE? What? Like you accidentally tripped and fell? Landing with your penis in her vagina? REPEATEDLY?

To be quite honest, if I'd ever been cheated on (and known about it), I might've been more venomous in my attack. Something along the lines of, "So, what you're trying to tell me is there is another woman walking around WITHOUT post-orgasmic glow? Because of you, you weaselly little shit-faced dicksplash."

And for the most part, I've considered those excuses of unfaithful arseholes with a healthy dose of contempt. Until yesterday. Because, I've learnt, sometimes we have no control over whether or not a prick finds itself below one's panty line. We just don't.

It's Winter, right? (Well, in most parts of the country - here in Durban it was a balmy 28.). And I'm not taking any chances with the health of The Daughter or the self. I just don't have the energy to deal with sickness. So I found myself in the queue at Clicks charging up my medical aid with a lorry load of vitamins and immune boosters and fatigue fighters. I, as I've said before, really like this kind of shopping spree - it makes me feel responsible, without having to part with any cash.

The Pant: You're going to have to charge those two to me and those two to The Daughter. Medical aid gets a bit sticky about who gets what vitamins.

Pharmacist: You know I can't charge that wax to medical aid?

TP: I know. But they really should be a bit more flexible about things like wax. It's vital for gynaecological cleanliness.

Pharmacist: Ohhhhhhhhhhhkay.

TP: What about this face mask?

Pharmacist: No, sorry.

TP: Tampons?

Pharmacist: No.

TP: Deodorant?

Pharmacist: No.

TP: Really? A healthy armpit is a sign of a healthy human, in my book. Ummmmm... What about vitamin B injections?

Pharmacist: I'll have to check about that.

TP: Oooooo! What about toothpaste?

Pharmacist: No.

TP: No way! Halitosis is a sickness! Easily preventable! They really should allow-

Pharmacist: Do you have an actual script?

TP: What do you mean? Like, am I in a play?

Pharmacist: From a doctor?

TP: Oh, no.

Pharmacist: So this (very large arm gesture) will be all?

TP: Yes. Thank you.

Pharmacist: Can I put it in two bags?

TP: Oh no! Don't worry. I know we look like sisters, but she's actually my daughter. And so we live together. One bag will be fine.

Pharmacist: (her irritation, by now, clearly visible) I don't have a bag big enough.

TP: Right. Two bags are just fine.

Pharmacist: Okay Mrs ... (peering at the metre long bill) Miss Liner. Could you come with me?

TP: (Shit! Should not have asked about the toothpaste. She's clearly going to detain me for attempted medical aid fraud. Bugger. Ah, and those people behind me are probably swearing at me too.) Of ... course.

Pharmacist: This is the nursing sister. She'll sort you out.

TP: Huh?

Pharmacist: Your vitamin B injection? That you ordered? She'll administer it for you.

TP: Oh, right. About that. I was just testing the-

Sister: (yanking up my dress and pulling my tights and knickers down to my ankles, while pushing the back of my head forward with one hand) Lean forward please.

TP: But we've only just met. Shouldn't we get to know each other be-

Sister: It'll only sting a litt-

TP: Oh, Mother of God. FUUUUUCK ME IN MY OLD BOOTS. You got a nerve! I'm limp! I'll never walk again.

Sister: Will that be all?

TP: Yes, it will be all (belligerently pulling my tights up). Unless you would like to dart me in a more serious nerve. How about my spinal column? Render me completely immobile for the rest of my natural life.

And so, with heavy bags, I limped out of Clicks, and I couldn't help thinking to myself that, actually, sometimes we can get steeked by mistake. What that woman did to me, was not my fault. I made a mistake. I didn't mean to. Oh God, if only I'd been drunk.