tHE pODIATRIST'S aWL*

I have a slot with the podiatrist tomorrow to scrape my feet. He uses a morticians’ awl and a wire-brush, has catacomb eyes and speaks gibberish, so he says. He wears loafers, black wingtips with yellow soles, and a cape that cinches round his hips with child’s string, the sort used for kites and postage. I will be shod in flip-flops and an ascot, a gift from my uncle Jim who has the curse of Saint John’s Wart and black teeth, and a cape similar to my podiatrist's, but without the cinching string or wire-brush.