I have always thought that I should have a fetish. Something which I would wish to hide from my elders and betters or even my equals. However, as I went through my teens, I was embarrassingly normal. Nothing really turned me on, unless it was the rosy cheeks and trim figure of Miss Bosling, who wore a dark blue school tunic and taught us gym.
In my late teens, the beautiful uniforms of American Airforce pilots - who were at least a few years older than me - made me swoon but really only led me down an entirely normal road, the final staging post being the likelihood that I would succomb to the overwhelming charms of a First Lootenant from Maryland, in his gabardine ‘pinks’ and dark green jacket or maybe the Captain from Ohio who wiggled his wing tips as he flew over our house.
When I got married and became pregnant, try as I might, I could not develop a craving for coal, fish and chips at 3am or even tomato ketchup on my breakfast cereal. None of these exotic compulsions which, to my mind, were indications of a fascinating character and a riveting personality, were mine.
As a staid married lady, mother of five, woman of many parts, I have lived my life, not only not turned on but definitely turned off by the idea of licking chocolate off any body, nor did artefacts like rolled umbrellas or 4 inch high stilettos (or is that a male thing?) make me see further than a forecast of rain or an uncomfortable evening.
Even a studied attempt in the sixties to join the others who were having a go at smoking a joint, simply ended in nausea and a total lack of desire ever to try again.
All that has changed. I have discovered pedicures! Not just any old pedicure either: We are talking Vietnamese. Erotic? Well not quite. Satisfying an inner need? Definitely.
I have decided that being pampered is definitely my thing. When I was younger, I could summon up a thousand good reasons why I should not spend money on myself. Now I am a paid-up member of the SKI club (Spend the Kids’ Inheritance). And I am getting into my stride!
It is just a little shop neighbourhood shop. Two Viet men, two Viet ladies with three customers in situ, including two men. One long thin, thirtyish. Perhaps a poet or at least would have been a poet when I was young. Interesting ! Men are no longer bothered about being seen in public having their hair tinted or permed, sitting in women’s hairdressers and here, having a manicure. The other bloke was only barely visible but I could see his feet from time to time so clearly he was having a pedicure.
Ensconced in a very large leather armchair, I felt like Goldilocks in Daddy Bear’s chair. I asked whether I could adjust the back but the round little lady who was busying herself running water into the footbasin and removing antique varnish from my toenails, shook her head.
Then one of her colleagues asked me whether I would like a massage. With vivid memories of an excruciatingly painful massage in Shanghai, all while sitting in a hairdresser’s chair, I demurred. Not Chinese massage, he said. Is Japanese. I looked doubtful. He said - Please try. So I did. Well, I never! The secrets of the chair were suddenly revealed to me as the back of the chair started kneading my shoulders, moved down my spine, gave me little chop chop movements, pummeled me and massaged me and all without a human being. It must have gone on for 20 minutes and it was very pleasant.
In the meantime, my toenails were expertly clipped, cuticles removed, hard skin erased, unguents applied, feet massaged - by human hands, scarlet nail varnish applied, and blown dry with the aid of a little fan. Pamper, pamper, pamper!
As I surveyed the activity all around, the poet moved away from the manucurist’s table and sat down at the ‘drying’ table, hands placed under lamps and fans. And what did I see? long red nails at the end of his fingers. I am sufficiently with the times to know that bowler hats and pipes are out, but this? Later I asked Mr Ying or was it Mr Yang and he told me that the poet was one of his regulars. A drag artist! Others came and went. Middle-aged housewife types for their weekly manicure, trendy girls who wanted pictures painted on their nails, others who were there for the pedicure experience.
I will definitely return for my fix. Sheer bliss. Something for the inner and outer woman!
