Toenail-cutting etiquette causes controversy in the Page household. Photo / 123rf
OPINION
An in-depth discussion concerning an issue of major importance took place at our house the other night.
It would be fair to say there was a frank exchange of views and, naturally — which basically means I had to give in unless I wanted a withdrawal of, er, “cuddles” for a month — Mrs P won.
“And what was the issue,” I hear you say. “The Israel-Palestine conflict? Russia’s invasion of Ukraine? The potholes on our roads?” Don’t get me started on that one.
Nope. None of the above. Our discussion concerned personal hygiene. More specifically, just where is it appropriate to cut your toenails?
Now don’t get me wrong. All of those previously mentioned issues are important and worthy of discussion. It’s just in our house we have grown somewhat weary of the state of the world; maybe it’s the same where you are. Every now and then we like to pull up the drawbridge and take a break from it all. Think about something else.
And yep, they are important issues and I am sticking my head in the sand a bit. Sorry. I’ll think about a solution to the world’s issues a bit later after I’ve given you a giggle over your cornflakes. I promise.
It all started with a report from the Boomerang Child who had been visiting someone, somewhere, along with several other friends.
Apparently, in the midst of the informal get-together, one of the residents pulled out some appropriate hardware and started clipping their toenails.
To say Boomerang Child was surprised would be an understatement. She was shocked. Even more so when one gnarly chunk of toenail pinged off the clippers sideways and ended up on the table in front of her.
As luck would have it, my toenails needed some attention this particular day and I mentioned as such to my lady as we said our goodbyes to the Boomerang Child and hung up.
A quick aside here. Has anyone realised we don’t actually “hang up” any more? Try explaining that phrase to a youngster who’s never seen a handheld phone, let alone put one back, hung it up, on the cradle.
So, my toenails need some attention and Mrs P is looking down at them with disgust.
“You’re not doing that in here,” she says firmly.
As we were in the lounge at the time I had no issue with the comment, however acerbicly delivered. I mean, one has to display some level of decorum, doesn’t one?
I have never even considered the lounge as an appropriate place to conduct such activities. There are so many breakables in our lounge, a stray nail could shatter anything in a flash, be it a picture or one of those fancy glasses we’ve had on the sideboard since 2007 and never used.
And so I assured her I would be retiring to the confines of our bathroom for the operation. I thought it would be a far more appropriate location.
That’s when I hit a snag.
Now before I go on I think I should point out, in spite of Mrs P’s disdain for them, my toenails are not ugly-looking creatures with a mind of their own. They are just normal nails. On the end of normal toes at the end of a normal foot.
They do not grow out at all angles and frighten young children — I can hear someone saying: “He’s talking about you Alan” — and nor do they grow so thick you’d need an industrial strength angle grinder to trim them back — “That’s you Bill”.
Sorry guys. I’ve yet to see a woman let her nails go to the extent we do so there’s no feminine example in this story.
As I say, I thought I’d take myself off to the bathroom. Stick a foot up on the edge of the bath or the loo and chop away.
Wrong.
Mrs P wants me to do it outside. Preferably in the rear courtyard where nobody can see me.
I am thinking that’s a bit silly, but then she brings up a previous incident, which is the reason she considers the bathroom an unsuitable location for me to go clipping.
Apparently, somewhere back in the mists of time I may — though my legal advisers have told me to reject any suggestion of culpability — have inadvertently allowed a clipped nail to somersault through bathroom airspace to land in an unfortunate location.
At least that’s what she claims. She didn’t exactly see it happen because she was showering at the time.
I find this suggestion very hard to believe but, according to Mrs P, my toenail must have landed in the clothing she had plonked down on the side for when she got out of the shower.
I won’t bore you with the full story or my evidence in mitigation, but it seems not long after I had conducted my operation she had slipped on her T-shirt and felt a sharp stabbing pain in her side.
Removal of the T-shirt and a subsequent check found nothing sharp stuck in it but, looking down, she had found a rather large, thick nail from a big toe sitting on the bathroom floor.
Obviously, I was in the frame but, thinking quickly, I said I’d need a DNA test of the offending item before I accepted it was mine.
I won’t tell you what she said. Ahem.
But anyway, this time around I’ve decided not to poke the bear, as it were, and I’ve reluctantly gone outside in the fresh air and clipped away to my heart’s content.
But in an “I’ll show her” frame of mind, I’ve carefully retained all 10 toenails in a bit of loo paper so she can see I’m pretty conscientious when it comes to this sort of thing.
“Therefore,” I confidently announce like some TV detective at the big finale as I show her the loo paper, “the toenail that stabbed you could not have been mine. It must have come from No1 Son (who had been staying at the time) ... or someone has been here while I’ve been away. Like your Latin lover Juan Antonio.”
As she continued unloading the dishwasher, Mrs P batted not an eyelid at the accusation, delivered in jest, but with suitable accusatory finger-pointing.
“It won’t be his,” she said matter of factly. “He always trims his before he comes round.”
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