£19

£19 - that’s the bit that really lifts it from mere disappointment into the foothills of comedy.

Hayley bought me a pair of flip flops. Not complex machinery. Not something with Bluetooth, firmware, a warranty card and a small man in Shenzhen monitoring my gait. Just flip flops. The sort of thing mankind more or less perfected once someone realised feet were at the bottom and beaches were gritty.

They took almost a week to arrive, which is an impressive gestation period for two bits of plastic and a toe strap. I was half expecting a midwife to knock on the door with them wrapped in a towel.

Then I put them on.

Now, I’m not a soft-footed aristocrat who needs velvet underfoot and a footman scattering rose petals ahead of me. I’ve walked on ships’ decks, gravel drives, garage floors, and the occasional Lego brick left by children who are now grown men and therefore have no excuse. But these things have little raised bobbles all over the sole, presumably intended to provide therapeutic stimulation.

Therapeutic, in this case, seems to mean being interrogated through the soles of your feet.

After about ten steps I’d had enough. They weren’t flip flops. They were budget acupressure sandals designed by someone who’d heard of comfort but regarded it as a bourgeois weakness. It was like walking across a tray of drawing pins while being told it was good for circulation.

And again, £19!

For £19 I don’t expect Italian leather, ergonomic brilliance, or a faint scent of Amalfi lemons. I do, however, expect to be able to cross the kitchen without developing the expression of a man walking barefoot across a medieval battlefield.

So back they went, immediately. Hayley’s intentions were kind, which is why I’m still married and the flip flops aren’t. They may suit someone with feet made of teak, or perhaps a retired fakir who feels his life has become too easy. How they make any money from them is beyond me.

For everyone else, I’d suggest ordinary flip flops. Or shoes. Or simply staying where you are.