‘It’s not very glamorous,' she said. ‘In fact, it’s not glamorous at all. You’ll either love it or you’ll hate it. I’m just hoping you don’t think I’m being rude.’
I’m totally used to my mother understating the likeability factor of any gift she buys for me. I’m not sure if that’s because of her tendency to be overly- circumspect or because of my proclivity for being a picky bitch. Probably a bit of both. Anyway, when she foreshadowed my Christmas parcel, I was intrigued.
Beneath the festive wrapping, enshrined in its all-but-impregnable blister pack, was my new guilty pleasure. I’d seen them advertised by silky-soft-skinned nymphettes in impossibly high-heeled strappy sandals, and I'd secretly hankered for one.
And here it was, complete with its sparkling diamond crystals and ergonomically-designed soft-touch handle… my very own electronic foot file… the most god-damn glamorous gift I’ve received since those ancient times before I started wearing industrial strength bras and no-nonsense nanna-knickers.
That little gadget is pure bliss with rechargeable batteries.
Miss 15 thinks it’s kind of gross to grind away the gnarly grunge that accumulates around the periphery of my over-worked heavy-load bearing heels. Oh the blessed ignorance of youth.
She knows not to interrupt, however, when I retire to my bedroom and she hears the purring begin.
Earlier today, as I was effortlessly silky-smoothening my sensuously rounded heels, I had an epiphany. I know how to make the entire female population — plus not an inconsiderable number of those XY chromosome carrying human beings who, let's face it, are only mutated XX carriers — I know how to make the vast percentage of the western world happy.
Right after I finish writing this blog entry, I'm sending off a special request to Santa Claus, which I'll cc. to Dr Scholl.
This year, I want a total-body-shaping version of this little beauty.How good would that be? Just roll that spinning-sucker over the lumpy bits and watch them effortlessly turn to dust.
Are you with me?