My Left Foot

A week ago I went for a reflexology foot massage in a room down a backstreet in Chinatown, where they wash your feet in blue detergent and make you drink water as warm as blood. I was initiated into this experience by a very good friend, who promptly fell asleep as soon as fingers hit foot. My eyes were wide open throughout. No amount of Heart FM, soft cantonese chat or cracked leather seating was going to distract me from the matter in hand. My feet were being attacked.

I am not a fan of physical contact from strangers. My parents are from Yorkshire, where a nod is an intimate indication of love. Over the years, however, running has necessitated several back massages and some painful physiotherapy, during which I have been known to yelp like a frightened puppy.

The foot massage was better. I didn’t scream and managed to stay seated for the whole 45 minutes. My feet felt pleasant afterwards. During, however, my primary concern was that the masseuse’s fingers would snap something important. I suspect that this probably can’t actually happen, but I don’t know that it can’t. It must be at least a possibility. It certainly felt like one, particularly when the tendons on my left foot were being plucked like strings on a double bass.

Yesterday night I ran 7 miles home from work and afterwards, lying on the sofa stuffing my face with pancakes, I realised that the outside sole of my left foot was hurting. Was it stiff? Was it pulled? Was something about to snap? It was painful when I walked, but also when I didn’t.

It hurts less this morning, but I can still feel it. I have put off this morning’s run until the evening. I will wear my old trainers in case new ones are the issue. I will take care. I will not panic.

I might have to go back to Chinatown.