What’s Afoot

Enjoy this very amusing poem about a visit to the Podiatrist by Karen Stoker …

What’s Afoot

It’s time for my foot health check, so to the Podiatrist I must go
Summer time is upon us and my trotters are now on show
Sandals are what I want to wear every morning when I dress
And friends will not admire them if my trotters look a mess

For a woman of a certain age, they’re in good nick I suppose
But I can’t bend down to see what might be lurking between my toes
A little bit of skin could do with softening here and there
It’s probably all the fault of the many different shoes I wear

I arrive at my appointment and am shown to the consulting room
“Come in, sit down, how are you”, says the Podiatrist, holding a broom
“I’ll be with you in a moment, as I just need to brush the floor”
She is sweeping up the nails that were clipped off the customer before

I sit upon the comfy couch, my ankles dangling in mid air
While the Podiatrist checks my record for the history of my foot care
Out comes a tray of implements, all sterilised, shiny and clean
Then latex gloves and plastic apron that is a putrid shade of green

An ice cold cleansing spray is squirted upon each foot in turn
As I sit quietly wondering what a podiatrist would earn
A peep between each toe follows with some podiatry vigour
It tickles when my toes are touched, so I try hard not to snigger

“You just need to have your nails cut, nothing more than that to do”
The thought of her using a scalpel has me turning a shade of blue
But there are no corns or callouses, and no hard skin to be sliced away
I am going to get off lightly, this surely is my lucky day

The nails that she is clipping off are really bouncing off the floor
The bigs ones really snap off and head towards the entrance door
She files and smooths the edges, sprays on a lotion, and I’m moisturised
Then there they are, my pair of trotters, all neat, soft and sterilised

Sandals back on and looking good, I am very happy and content
I reckon that the price I’ll pay will be money very well spent
I thank the nice podiatrist and then walk towards the door
And all I hear is the crunching of my trotter debris on the floor

© Karen Stoker – 24/07/16