THIS LITTLE PIGGY WENT TO MARKET

AND DID THOSE FEET IN ANCIENT TIMES....?

Playwright John Mortimer said he knew he was getting old when he needed help putting on his socks. By that yardstick I'm still moderately robust, although in one pedal element, I do need help. I refer to cutting my toenails. After bending over my feet for a few minutes caused spots before my eyes, I recruited Marie Dominique to the task, but desisted the third time she drew blood.

Fortunately, M. X, our local podologue, has his surgery a few doors away, and a visit every few weeks keeps my toes in trim. It's become harder to make an appointment, however, since the efforts of mayor Anne Hidalgo to remove cars from the streets and get us all walking or riding bicycles has greatly increased the incidence of bunions, blisters, fallen arches and other feet-related problems. Business is so brisk, in fact, that he's had to hire an assistant, and it's Mlle. Y who now takes care of my feet.

Having a woman undertake such an intimate task transforms the experience. Our conversation ranges widely, occasionally approaching the quality of pillow talk as her fingers, encountering a sensitive spot, elicit a surprised yelp. Dentist chat, impeded by objects stuck in one's mouth, is never that diverting - although, this being France, there can be exceptions. In La Vie Sexuelle de Catherine M, modern art authority Catherine Millet's tell-all account of her busy sex life, she describes dallying in the chair not only with her dentist but also his nurse - a novel approach to filling a cavity. Open wide, please…now spit….

With the Odéon theatre at the top of the street and the Sorbonne only a short walk away, plenty of our neighbours are involved in the arts, so I shouldn't have been surprised to learn that some were also clients of M. X and Mlle. Y. Had this been Los Angeles, of course, their likenesses would certainly have decorated the walls. In Tinseltown, everyone from barbers to hot-dog vendors displays photographs of famous customers, fulsomely inscribed. Optometrists pin up portraits of grateful showbiz customers (“Here’s looking at you, kid!”) and priests plaster their confessionals with head shots of celebrity sinners they’ve shriven (“For Father Malachy. Tough but Fair. Pax Vobiscum.”)

The French, however, are more discreet. No lawyer would think of touting for business from the side of a bus, nor a physician let himself be filmed for TV, white-coated and avuncular, ministering to some wide-eyed tot. Even writers shun the limelight, leaving that to foreigners. Promotion does take place, of course, but behind the scenes, and in silence. When my first book came out in France, the publisher's PR person seated me behind a pile of copies with a list of the most influential reviewers - none of whom I'd ever met - and set me to work inscribing.

Maybe M. X or his colleagues casually drop the information that they pare Bernard Henri Levy's corns or treat Brigitte Macron's ingrown toenail. Nobody would mind, providing it was done with discretion. Better than LA, where, if you believe the gossip, they sell Lady Gaga's nail clippings on eBay, and, enquiring "Guess who these belong to?", flash nude Polaroids of Brad Pitt's surprisingly minuscule metatarsal.