Luckily, I have two of them, and they've worked just fine.

They are small-ish, but perfectly formed. They don't look, or smell, offensive (no-one's suggested otherwise . . . to my face, at least) and, until recently, my feet were entirely forgettable.

Without going into too much detail, trouble was flaring down south.

Like a politician in an election year, I was keenly aware of a potentially ugly development in the neglected regions, but ignored it as it usually sorted itself out.

It didn't.

I thought only older people went to podiatrists. You know, people over 50.

OK, when I say over 50 I mean baby boomers . . . and older.

Not a gen Xer who is alive and kicking, walking on sunshine, kicking against the pricks, and could, and would, walk 500 miles at the drop of an overwrought synthesiser break.

Half a century of this kind of caper had caught up with me.

Ah, might as well jump. Jump into the world of adult foot care.

I brought up my ageist theory about foot-care clientele to my new podiatrist, who, by the way, looked like she was lucky to be 25.

"Ha, ha . . . no way," she said. "Teenage boys. We get heaps of them in here."

Apparently, after an agonising period of ingrown toenail "self-care", our young blokes end up conceding that effective infection control is beyond their skill set.

Anyway, back to me. The podiatrist inspected my trotters. She looked at my discarded shoes, looked at my toes, then looked at me. The only thing I heard was "little toenails" and "trauma".

How pathetic. I have been hobbled by traumatised LITTLE toenails. I hope my mates at Friday Night Fight Club never hear about this.

She told me my shoes were to blame.

They were too narrow and leaning on my baby tootsies. It's too crowded in there, man.

My toes needed space.

Of course, I jumped the gun.

"But what shoes do I wear?

"I'm not wearing slippers with Velcro," I said all panicky-like.

"You just need something with a wide toe," she said calmly.

My anxiety was rising. Clown shoes. She's telling me to wear clown shoes. Bozo boots.

Before I could embarrass myself, she pointed to her feet and said: "Well, you could wear these. Doc Martens."

"They're good. They cost a bit, as you'd know, but they'll last forever."

I was so relieved that I almost kicked her in the face.

"Yep. I can do that. I used to have some in the '80s," I said, silently thanking the shoe gods that she wasn't wearing Reef sandals.

I stepped out into the day. I thought about doing a celebratory moonwalk, but I didn't want to further traumatise my pinky toes, or passers-by.

So, I headed off singing "Dr Martens, Dr Martens, Dr Martens boots ... OI!"

I can't wait for the day when I stop walking like an (injured) Egyptian.

deborah.richards@newcastleherald.com.au

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