I haven’t yet told you about my foot rub.
During my week off I had a morning at Stockport Town Hall, at a free event. I was offered advice, pens and tote bags. Also, key rings, energy saver plugs, and cupcakes. There was more, but I’m not greedy.
I met the Mayor; which is to say, I asked her if I could take her photograph and she shoved aside the minder trying to shove me aside, and posed. The minder minds the Mayoral Chain, not the Mayor: a mayor can be (and is) replaced (each year); the chain is valuable enough to require a permanent minder. I got my photo so I didn’t mind.
I discovered a room full of massage tables and pretty smells. I have previously experienced a head massage, full body massage and a facial, so I opted for a foot rub.
‘Rub’ is too weak a word to describe thirty minutes of bliss: if honey is the nectar of the gods, foot rubs are the bees knees. Feet are the true windows to the soul.
An Angel With Dirty Feet
The rubmeister was Wendy, who has a permanent stall at Stockport’s indoor market; she does other things to your body besides make your feet smile. If you are ever in the area, tell her The Relaxed Housewife sent you. She doesn’t use the internet or read this blog so she’ll think you’re nuts, but once she’s finished with your feet, you won’t care.
I have the funniest readers in the blogosphere (not necessarily ha ha…)