I am at war with my foot. Unlike Christy Brown, my left foot, for no discernible reason, is betraying me. I haven’t fallen (well, not since last years infamous Fijian spa episode), landed heavily on an irregular shaped object or run a marathon (LOL), I just woke up in pain four days ago.
According to the podiatrist what we have here is a plantar fascia failing. Some microscopic tear that may have resulted from the prolonged wearing of flatter than flat shoes. Damn those alluringly high arches of mine.
I wonder what your Paleolithic woman did about her high arches? It’s not like she could lace up a prehistoric pair of Yeezy’s to support her feet while she hunted and gathered, is it?
I think about this stuff.
So i’m strapped up and favouring the right foot which makes me walk like Mi from National Velvet. I’m also committed to wearing trainers for the next six weeks so there’s the whole 90’s Jerry Seinfeld fashion aesthetic to deal with too.
I’m not happy about it.
I decided to use this period of enforced inactivity to sort through some ancient artefacts from my childhood and found a prescient poem written in late primary school:
The foot, as you know, is really quite useful
you use it at work and at play.
You use it for running and jumping and skipping,
quite versatile in its own way.
So when it get hurt, you know, twisted or broken,
with a rip and wrench and crack,
the darn thing no longer is useful,
it’s a jolly great handicap!
I was extremely proud of this poem and after it was published in the school magazine, increasingly certain of my literary destiny. My rhyming super powers ensured I was going to be Australia’s answer to Pam Ayers.
I might even get on the Mike Walsh Show. My dreams were big.
Reading over some other equally laudable childhood pieces, it is evident my early influences were heavily based on English boarding school novels. Not many other twelve year olds in 1970’s Australia were calling people ‘Jolly good sports’.
Althea’s Term at Winterton, Monica Turns Up Trumps and Elizabeth’s Green Way introduced me to a world of kind hearted Head girls called Daphne who hosted tea in the common room and remembered to include Bessie, even though she was a tubby lass who got into the most terrible scrapes.
I remember being severely punished over my use of the word ‘ejaculated’ when describing a friends sudden and hilarious outburst in class. I’d read the word over and over in these variously dated novels and, like so many other words, had managed to glean its meaning from the context.
Harold Robbins and Jackie Collins scattered amongst the Readers Digest sets in the good room weren’t helping my linguistic case. Fortunately my stepmother was able to stop frothing at the mouth long enough for me to produce an appropriate definition in the ever reliable Pocket Oxford Dictionary.
Despite stinging from both the humiliating parental tirade and accompanying facial backhander, I revelled in the superiority of my vocabulary. My parents were dolts, I consoled myself.
I could go back to my bedroom and write “Dear Diary, mater gave me such a thrashing tonight, which was jolly unfair and I am most vexed. I think I may be truly in love with David Soul. His ‘Hutch’ deeply touches my soul. Deborah says that Starsky is better looking, but no one agrees with her. She’s such a ninny!”
For a time my diaries were full of ‘references to ‘frightful old bores’ and ‘fast chums’ until it was evident I was becoming the ‘weird’ one and would never seduce Craig Barnsley in 1B.
I packed away Fanny’s Final Term at Brompton and borrowed a copy of Dolly magazine.
Armed with a recipe for rolled oat face masks and “Ten Ways To Nab Your Guy Before Christmas”, Craig didn’t stand a chance.
Well he did, but I’ve moved on now…
…on my good leg.