My daughter once had a boyfriend who I liked a lot, but couldn’t look at from the knees down.

Unlike most of her failed suitors, this rather witty, charming 20-year-old was a good conversationalist. He didn’t shuffle into my house like an overly-glazed Greggs doughnut and sit staring into his phone, grimacing strangely if you spoke to him.

But he wore Crocs, so privately I hated him. As long as I couldn’t see his feet, I’d happily spend hours in his company.

At the dinner table, or in pubs and restaurants, we’d blether about music and films. But in any location where his feet were visible - shod in those hideous bits of garbage - I’d be filled with secret rage.

In the living room, his feet would offend me. In the garden, I wanted to push him into a hedge, Crocs first. Walking down the street, I felt horrified public embarrassment at what was happening at the end of his ridiculous legs.

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Clearly, I didn’t tell my daughter this. I love her, so I’m not going to say: ‘My dear and cherished child, why have you chosen this man who so obviously has no possible chance of success in life given the absolute crimes he has committed when it comes to his choice of footwear?’.

The most that escaped my lips was a muted reply to a question from her like: ‘So how are you getting on with X, Dad?’. To which I’d say: ‘Yes, great guy. But Crocs…’

I’ve only two phobias: spiders and horrible shoes. Snakes, fine. Bats, love them. Heights, quite the buzz.

But spiders and Crocs make me physically shudder. Indeed, I’d rather be in the company of an actual croc - teeth bared and waddling toward me at top speed - than the foot Croc.

So I was rather cock-a-hoop at news that Crocs are dying as a fashion accessory. Both the words ‘fashion’ and ‘accessory’ are evidently working exceptionally hard in conjunction with this vile........

© Herald Scotland