I HAVE a thing called plantar fasciitis. Doesn’t that sound horrible, like a flesh-eating bug? It is not that horrible, although I am not mad keen on it.
It is actually an inflammation of the tendons in my feet, which gives me a sore heel. They actually called it “policeman’s heel” before they decided it needed a sexy name with two Is next to each other. So I wear insoles, which support my arches, and tend to wear boots, which support my ankles.
Anyway, this morning, I picked up my brown boot, popped an insole inside, put it on, then was distracted by morning activities and kerfuffle. I came back a minute or two later, picked up another brown item of footwear, popped an insole inside, put it on and left the house.
I do remember I was limping a little as I walked to the bus stop, and then on my way to work, but I often do in the morning, thanks to my little condition.
It was just before 1pm when I popped to… well, I won’t go into detail, but I was standing next to another man and looking down, when I noticed that a seam appeared to have rubbed off one of my boots. “Seams don’t rub off,” I thought.
“Eep,” I said. One shouldn’t really say “Eep” in the location and position I had adopted, especially in company. I decided against explaining myself. Some things are better left unsaid.
I spent the rest of the day with my feet hidden away under my desk, so that nobody would see this…
I was wearing one brown boot and one brown shoe. Also, whenever I stood up I was lop-sided.
I am 40 next week, but I console myself with the fact I could just as easily have done this to myself 20 years ago.