There’s nothing that says summer to me more clearly and more beautifully than a nice set of shiny, freshly-varnished toes. My poor pinkies have spent the winter months stuffed into socks, ferociously neglected, I’m afraid, until last week, when a friend suddenly suggested a pedicure. It’s such a lovely indulgence to get it done for you, instead of lurching at your extremities yourself with (in my case) increasingly middle-aged, trombone-style focussing problems. It’s a wonder I don’t paint the entire floor instead of my toes. So I was definitely up for a toe-pampering session, though I was a tiny bit reluctant to get my poor gnarly old trotters out of their swaddling bands in public. I did happen to notice that the pedicure lady gave my feet a thorough dunking in the footpath before even thinking about starting, but I could hardly blame her, and I was soon relaxing into the whole experience. This was helped by a strange pummelling massage chair that periodically shuddered and juddered and left us both with helpless giggles, and partly by the realisation, as I looked around the salon, that absolutely nobody’s feet look beautiful after a winter in hibernation. We were off to a wedding at the weekend and so I had my toes painted purple to match my ridiculous purple wedge shoes. Here the toes are in all their shiny summer glory:
And, in case you’d like to know, the colour is called, ‘Lourvre me, Louvre me not.’ Irresistible 🙂