How do I look?

Oh, my feet! What pathos you inspire in me; more, I think, than any other part of my body. You are so far away from me - and so neglected; like children who have been evacuated from the body politic.
Being over 6ft high, my life has been one in which, for the first 17-odd years, my feet were exiled. And I was glad of this - because I found them to be increasingly monstrous. In those far off days, there were remarkably few teenagers with size 12s, and I had to go to a gloomy, specialist shop, where I could only buy gloomy, specialist shoes - when all I lusted after were flagrantly unsuitable winkle-pickers.
And so I continue to neglect my feet - even though, as someone who loves walking passionately, I need them. So it is, that as I write this, I have a callous on the side of my right big toe the size of Liechtenstein. I do own a corn knife, and there is a certain joy to be had in whittling away at the hardened skin, producing shavings of me. But why bother it? After all, it's not bothering me, and what am I going to do if I reduce those Brobdingnagian plates of meat, cram them into Jimmy Choos? I think not.