It is always nice to see a man who takes pride in his appearance. My fellow passenger handled the worn Pumice stone with delicacy and no little dexterity. The exfoliation of his feet began on the outskirts of Swindon.
Rubbed Nirvana was achieved as we rolled into Reading.
He admired his handiwork as far as Slough and then refitted the black knee length socks which had been so carefully removed twenty five minutes earlier. The socks clamped with elastic elation around his hairy calves.
His shoes needed a polish. But I didn’t feel in a position to tell him.