Walked home on air last night, my shoe a definite half size too big, my feet pink and shiny and soft. I had a Chinese pedicure and foot massage.

You’ll think I’m some kind of retard, reaching well into middle age and remaining a pedicure virgin, but there it is. Can’t go into all the details, mostly because I wasn’t watching, but a lot of scraping, slicing, cutting and rasping tools were involved, all to the sound of Chinese whispers and some cool sax on the CD. And the massage was good too, with little bits of pain but mostly pleasure and some perplexing percussive parts, pal. It ended with my legs being thrown around hither and yon, all very mysterious. And a plate of pretty good ravioli cinese (aka dumplings).

All this took place in an odd part of town, the Pigneta, an area of smallish buildings sandwiched between two sets of railway tracks and a big flyover. The Chinese wellness centre occupied a pretty ordinary house, but there was something ineffably mysterious and potentially seedy about it. Some very attractive young Chinese women in unseasonable clothes. An upstairs that was rumoured by one of our party who had been before to be a warren of tiny rooms. And another rumour (same source) that the place had been closed for six months on a prostitution charge.

Maybe next time (for there will be a next time) I’ll discover whether they offer any extras. That would be a first too.

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