Garra Fish Spa Pedicure. At Gymophobics of Lichfield. Soothing. Exfoliating. Relaxing. And no longer available. I called on Saturday to explore this deeply odd and unsettling beauty treatment, in which a tank full of seriously maladjusted fish dine on the dead skin of your feet. I saw the fish swimming in their tank. But they were not happy fish, the ladies of Gymophobics told me, wringing their hands. I would have to come back next week, when the water levels had settled (or some such thing). I rang today and was told that they no longer do the fish spa.
DAMN! Now I'll have to think of another new thing! In fact, two new things, as I'm a week behind, and that's not counting the bloody car wash which I still haven't done. I admit that this is a totally egocentric response to the fate of the unhappy garra rufa fish, who for all I know were found on Monday morning bobbing on the surface of their tank, gorged to death on a diet of verrucas and athletes foot.
I have been spared the thing I most dreaded, however, which was to stick my feet in the tank and discover that there had been some silly mix up at the tropical fish counter, resulting in a consignment of piranhas being sent to Lichfield instead. You might not realise till too late. You can never really tell with beauty treatments how much it's supposed to hurt. Waxing, for example. You need to be stoical. It's like childbirth, you tell yourself, it won't go on for ever. Plus you won't have to worry about tuition fees for your bikini line when it grows up. Or else like minor medical procedures, when they say 'You may experience some discomfort--when we CRUSH YOUR BOOB IN A VAST METAL CLAMP, MWA HA HA!!' (I occasionally wonder if this is how they check for testicular cancer as well.) So with the piranhas, you might be sitting watching the blood swirl round the tank, thinking, actually, this is jolly painful, still, they must be doing a good job. Then in a deeply English not-making-a-scene kind of way, you'd hobble home on your stumps thinking, Well, that got rid of the hard skin, anyway.
Hard skin! Duh. I must have been mad to even contemplate getting rid of it. I have spent all year toughening my feet up so that I can do run around the karate dojo without whimpering. Sorry--fish is off.
About this blog
This is a window into the weird world of Anglicanism, as experienced on a Cathedral Close. Has anything much happened since Trollope's Barchester Chronicles? You will still see the 'canon in residence' hurrying across to choral Evensong, robes flapping, as the late bell chimes. But look carefully and you will notice he is checking the football score on his iPhone as he runs. This is also a writer's blog. It charts the agony and ecstasy of the novelist's life. And it's a fighter's blog. It charts the agony and ecstasy of the judo mat. Well, the agony, anyway.