Do toes remember sunshine? Do they wake up each morning & say, whilst half-asleep & under layers of duvet, remember that summer of sun & sea & salt on our skin? Do they long for the heat & warmth & light that seeps gradually, irresistibly, into sinews & bones? Do they say, enough of socks & tights & boots, let me run naked and free? If I understood the language of toes, would they tell me to pack a bag & board that plane & return to The White Island &, on arrival, would my toes dance – wildly & euphorically – because finally, they are footloose & fearless? But, not understanding the language of toes, I have only this short clip where, five years ago, my toes (silently) luxuriated on a pebble beach, in the Ibizan sun.