I gave my inner chick an outing recently - albeit a brief one. I was away with two women friends, one of whom had come equipped with a bottle of shiny coral nail polish. NP and I have only a very remote acquaintance. I ineptly coloured my finger nails once or twice as a young teenager, before drifting off to other pass-times. That smell of polish I now most associate with quick and messy multiple dabs at the ladders in my school stockings. However, that tiny brush was flourished again a couple of weekends ago, and my feet were invited to the party. I told my friend that this was their first time - these were ten little virgins with no prior experience. They had never been buffed, coloured, filed, let alone celebrated and put our for potential admiration. Anyway me and my toes - we did it. (Excuse the grammar - I'm learning to loosen up..) And for two weeks I have shone in my nether regions. My city has, on odd days, had bursts of heat, so the toes (and the chick they were connected to) came out, gleaming through the spaces in my sandals. In a recent long, noisy and tedious meeting, I rolled them to catch the light, surreptitiously checking to see if my colleagues had observed this shift in my presentation of self to world. In the quiet of a meeting of quakers, I found them squirming, and less able to frolic. As days have passed, this brand new focus on feet has been, well, uplifting, but also mildly unsettling. Last night, as I fell upon the polish remover - a daughter legacy tucked away in the bathroom cupboard, I uncovered the 'real me' with some relief. Here were my half forgotten, mostly unseen old buttons. Up on the bath edge, ridged and a bit bashed, they took on a sweet familiarity, and I welcomed them back. It seems I have returned to default position. That glam pam is back in her box, not under wraps - just taking it easy.