They really bloody hurt, I tell you. Corns, that is. Or rather, in my case, corn singular. One is enough, trust me. One is enough to have me wincing, limping, yelping, swearing. One is agony. One is plenty.

My one is on the lateral side of my left fifth metatarsophalangeal joint, which, in English, is the left side of my left foot just below the little toe. It hurts when I’m walking, or standing, sometimes when I’m sitting, and occasionally even when I’m sleeping. Every few months I get it sorted. Thereafter, it’s fine for anything up to 15 minutes before it starts complaining again. While the general pain gradually grows and grows, the complicating factor is that it also comes and goes. I believe that this is the corn entertaining itself by making me forget about it before issuing a terrible reminder that it’s still in business.

If you see me around, say, on a train or in a pub, and I suddenly let out a short, piercing howl, this is because my foot’s shifted just enough in my shoe to give the spiteful little bastard the excuse it needs to do its worst.

In the words of my chiropodist: “A corn is created between a bony prominence and the skin. The skin of the foot and hand is a little different from the skin elsewhere in the body as it has an extra layer of epidermis called the stratum mucosum, which, if physically pressurised or fractioned, creates an excessive amount of extra keratin cells, which coalesce to form an ice-cream-cone-shaped excrescence that we refer to as a corn.”

Excrescence. Not a word I’d come across but, with its decidedly unpleasant ring, it does the job perfectly. This ice-cream-cone-shaped excrescence has a very, very sharp point. This it delights in stabbing into nerves and bone.

Consulting the NHS website, I note, bitterly, that I’m doing everything it says I should: wearing cushioned socks and comfortable shoes, moisturising regularly and filing away hard skin. To be fair, though, I’m also doing most things it says not to do. It advises against hacking away at corns yourself (in desperation, I have). It suggests not walking long distances or standing for long periods (sorry, I just have to), and to wear high heels (I rarely do – only on special occasions). Wearing ill-fitting shoes is cited as a cause, which makes sense. So too is lifting heavy weights, which makes less sense and, bizarrely, so is playing a musical instrument, which makes no sense at all.

As for the range of over-the-counter remedies you can try, OK, the little pads reduce the pressure and the pain. But the salicylic acid you can buy with which to attack the corn also attacks everything around it and, in any case, won’t stop the wretched thing from making a comeback.

So, it’s off to the chiropodist – if you can find one. There don’t seem to be enough of them to go around. Getting an appointment with my main man can be tricky, and often I’m away somewhere when the pain becomes too savage to bear. I’ve begged for the attentions of chiropodists all over the country, sobbing into the phone, limping into receptions, eyes watering, but if they’re busy, they’re busy. I’d strongly recommend to any teenagers good at science but lacking the appetite for a degree in medicine to think about chiropody as a career. It’ll be a long time before AI can sort out a corn, so I’ll wager they’d never be short of work.

Breaking news: my chiropodist has just been in touch to clarify that my own corn is surrounded by a callus – “a bit like a volcano, with the callus spreading out around the edges”. If you want to see for yourself sometime, do feel free to tap me on the shoulder and I’ll be more than happy to give you a look. It would be good to share the pain.