I wish that I had dainty feet. Life would so much easier.
I’d dance the fandango for the king and queen of Sweden, and they’d shower me in Dime bars and flat pack furniture. On the way home from the ball, the cab driver would turn around and say: ‘Ere, aren’t you that dancer geezer? You’re bleedin’ marvellous.’ I’d just smile and say thank you.
Once I got back to my bijou city apartment, I’d put on a little cool jazz, maybe Dr Alban’s first album, and dance myself to sleep.
But I don’t. I don’t have dainty feet. I have the kind of feet that could only get me work as a caveman impersonator. It’s not much of a life, and it means that I can never wash my hair.
Do you think that one day they’ll invent an operation to give me slimmer feet? I hope and I’ll pray.
[...] Dainty Feet – A short daydream about what I’d do if my feet were less caveman-like. [...]