Carol’s Column

Stimulate your sole

IT ARRIVED on my desk unexpectedly.

Blue, plastic with an interesting curved shape.

Is this a new kind of typewriter or computer I thought to myself as I surveyed the mysterious object.

Attached to the plastic was a letter.

Dear Carol, it said,

Are you tired, arthritic or simply exhausted?

Or perhaps it’s your circulation that’s giving you problems.

Well, I am your new friend: Your own personal foot masseur — I have been made just for you.

Remove your shoes, pop me on the floor, slip your feet inside and away we go.

What would you have done?

I immediately stripped, popped the machine on the floor, placed my corns, bunions and feet inside the box and pushed the button.

Oh bliss, oh joy. Before I could blink a false eyelash, my knock knees started bouncing and my feet began to throb.

Hidden below my desk, the foot masseur massaged my feet, causing not an inconsiderable amount of pleasure.

For what could be nicer than having your feet massaged unobtrusively while the phone rings, the cat tears the curtains and the world keeps happening?

According to the instructions, if I added warm water, my personal foot masseur, known as a Clairol Footspa, promised to soothe my itchy feet, stimulate my ankles — I’ve always wanted to have my ankles stimulated — and relieve circulation problems in my feet.

This was an opportunity I couldn’t miss. I filled the footspa with water and inserted my feet for a hydro-massage.

“What’s the matter?” asked my friend Betty who arrived in the middle of my massage. “Why are you twitching like that?”

“I’m having my circulation recharged, my corns revitalised and my ankles stimulated.”

“Kinky! But other people listen to the radio for fun,” she murmured coolly as she poured us both a yoghurt and gin, so good for the complexion.

The footspa has become part of my life.

Convertible, like my family, it follows me everywhere.

Why only last week I attended a formal ball resplendent in my turquoise Woolworths ballgown and matching footspa.

A rather stiff affair — it was considerably livened by the company of the spa.

I popped it under the table — and before long, everyone was vibrating and throbbing in time to the music.

Why only this morning, I jumped out of bed and looked for my spa.

To find it had disappeared.

“Why are you phoning the Parkview Police?” said my son Jamie as he walked past me en route to his baked beans on toast.

“My spa’s been stolen!” I wailed. “It’s disappeared, vanished.”

“Relax, Ma, it’s in the playroom. I borrowed it for Harold Wilson.”

I shot to the playroom, and sure enough, there was our goldfish, Harold Wilson, as happy as a piranha, floating around the footspa.

“Don’t you think the vibrations are bad for him?” I asked Jamie hesitantly. “Do you think a goldfish enjoys having a massage.”

“Ma, it’s done wonders for your circulation — look how energetic your ankles are these days. Of course it’s good for Harold Wilson.”

We’re the only family in South Africa that keeps a goldfish in a portable footspa.

But, why not?

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