"He was a wash-out. Just kept going on about his feet..."

Martyr to me feet. St Sebastian in Dr Scholls. Every day I wake up and feel as if I was on a motivational fire-pit walk the previous day.

It wasn't always this way. I don't ever remember having any problems with my feet before the age of forty. They were fine. I could wear anything, but Dr Marten's were my boot of choice for years. Big lumbering, leathery bastards, scuffed to fuck as was the style of the time, great fat eight-hole laces wrapped round them, black or cherry. And never a blister. Never a bruise. Not a callous, no great thick yellow heels like cold tallow. No problems at all. 

Currently I have an enormous blister on the knuckle of my left big toe. There is a blister on the third toe of my right foot. I got these from the desert boots I have been wearing happily for a couple of years. One day, on a short walk, they decided they'd had enough of providing comfort and support and decided to bite deep into my flesh. I was bleeding through my sock by the time I hobbled home. There are trust issues here - it's like being savaged by a therapy dog. I now keep Compeed blister plasters in my wallet, where once I kept photos of loved ones or an expired condom. 

I mean, these are desert boots, made of softest suede. It's like getting blisters from a ballet slipper. I bought a pair of Dr Martens five years ago and after trying for two years, was unable to break them in. They're gathering dust on the shoe rack. I should give them away, but they're like those shirts in my wardrobe I no longer fit into...one day, one day...

I have to wear a special insole in my shoes because of the plantaar fasciitis I developed in my forties. Nicknamed "Policeman's Heel" it's basically punishment for walking a lot while fat. Thanks. I got a sweet pair of Addidas for my birthday and had visions of finally being an Addidas guy, but the bony ridges of my chicken heels - usually the things cut to ribbons when I break in new shoes - destroyed the lining of the trainers in two months. They're irreparable. 

I spent a fortnight soaking my feet in tea attempting to toughen them up. This is what hikers do apparently. In fact my feet never felt so soft and babyish and my toe nails went brown. I decided to go the whole hog and get surgical spirit to rub into them, to go full ballet dancer. I decided this just after I'd gone into a small chemist's looking for shoe laces which, of course, the chemist didn't sell because no one sells shoelaces in the small shops near your house anymore - you have to go out of town to a big Tesco that has a Timpsons built into it if you want rare and exotic things like shoe laces. 

I'd left the shop and thought - Surgical Spirit! - and headed back in. The pharmacist looked me up and down. "Do you sell White Spirit?" I said. He'd been waiting for this - the English accent, the big hair, some sort of scary vampire cat on my t-shirt (The Master and Margarita, mate) the baffled exploratory search for shoe laces - probably taken off me in the police station. And now here I was, back like Columbo for "one more thing", and it just happened to be cheap, powerful alcohol. 

"No we don't sell "White Spirit"." He said. "Fair enough." There was a moment: "We do sell Surgical Spirit." "Ah, yes. That's exactly what I meant." I said. "There are one or two different ingredients..." "Well, I'm going to rub it on my feet, not drink it." "Good," he said, "because that's what it's for." Was I mistaken or did he hold my gaze for slightly too long. Was he trying to read me? Anyway I got out of there without signing the poisons book with my jittery, delirium tremens hand. 

"I expect this will tickle when I rub it on." I said, jovially. "It will sting badly if there's broken skin." He was a laugh. 

I have a pair of shoes that, touch my wooden leg, don't destroy my feet. They're a pair of navy felt Dr Martens. (see Fig. A) They have white shoe laces (fraying), and I look like Little Lord Fauntleroy in them, but finally there's a fabric that doesn't act like a bear trap on my baby pink tootsies. Felt. 

So far so good. We'll see.