Many years ago at a craft show I
spent a hot sunny day watching a man paint with his feet. This time
who knows, because the propaganda for tomorrow's event contains that
terrifying implication "a jolly good time is had by all".
The man who could paint with his feet was wheeled out, popped in the shade
of his canopy and there he lay with his head on a pillow while a bevy of
large women offered encouragement and assistance with brushes and paints,
orange drinks and those sorts of things.
I cannot recall whether any of us sold
anything, but I do remember that by around midday we had all soured on
children. Especially one little bastard of a boy, who was
encouraged by his mother and by our neighbor's bevy of large women to take
off his flip-flops and do a little foot painting himself.
The man who could paint with his feet
also had difficulty with communication. He could squeak in positive
and negative tones and he could grunt. My own interpretation of his
frequent remarks, suggested that right from the start of that day he had
wanted to stay home.
But craft shows are good for us,
otherwise atrophy and preoccupation with soil sets in.