I was saying to the husband last week that I wished the clever bods of this world would make a foot transplant possible. This was after the patio work of last week rendered me useless for dancing so I was particularly pi**ed off that evening.
'Whose feet would you have then?' asked the husband, liking this game.
'Patrick Swayze, I think', I replied. 'He was a brilliant dancer. Just imagine how good I'd be at the Shim Sham at Swing Club'.
The husband frowned. 'That's all well and good', he said, 'but you'll have hairy toes and none of your shoes will fit'.
I said to him that I thought that would be a acceptable price for being able to dance, but then the problem as to whether Mr Swayze could swim as well as he could dance cropped up. I said to the husband that I didn't care whether he could swim or not, as I am so terrible at it that anything would be an improvement. In fact, having size 11 feet might even help.
Then the subject turned to my feet.
Standing in the kitchen in bare foot splendour, I said to the husband that I was always surprised that I wasn't better at swimming since I had webbed feet.
Well this statement caused him to stop dead in his tracks with the hot cross bun he was devouring. 'Webbed feet?' he said. 'I've never noticed that before'. As he took a closer look, there was a deep sigh. 'All this time', he said, 'and I never knew I was married to a duck...'
I was telling Miss R all about this at breakfast yesterday, and it turns out she has the same webbed feet.
The Mother, who was with us along with Mrs Jangles, proclaimed that she had never noticed our foot affliction when we were babies, and that as far as she was concerned, we were quite normal.
And there, my friends, lies the crux of the problem which is my life...