Painting my toenails, I wondered what happens to animal toenails when they get old? Humans get the chiropodist round with pliers. What do leopards or lions do when theirs become so horny that bits no longer chip off when they stub their toes on a tree? I once watched a fetish film in which an Amazonian blonde spent the entire time pampering her tootsies. This culminated in her shaving her stray toe hairs and walking around LA in in perspex fuck-me platforms. How does that work? Are four cleavages better than one? Does size matter? If a woman has a foot fetish, does she reverse the old rule of thumb and look at a man's lunchbox to calculate the length of his instep? These are the musings of the over tired. I was up writing notes at six. Fed and saw off the kids before another work confab over bagels. Then a bit of do-gooding for the eldest's school and now it's time for real work: knocking out press releases in return for a website design and build. Dealing with IT people is like being in the X Files. They speak in flow charts. Even where an outcome is obvious, they can't jump ahead until they've completed the paradigm. Strange. To get me in industrious mood I have put on tribal music - Baka, people of the rainforest, Philip Glass's Powqqasi and The Gypsy Kings. Yesterday my first love sent me a Pilot CD. The note read: 'wohoho it's magic, have a wonderful day.' Touched at this walk down memory lane, I put it on so I could back-refer in my thank you. The songs were banal beyond belief: Look out California, here comes Canada... It soiled my tastebuds for the day. No such mishaps this morning;-)