There was this one time when my big toe got stuck in the handle of a coffee cup.

It was a brown ceramic cup, with, if I remember correctly and I’m not sure that I do, a blue cornflower glazed on each side. It was, you can see, the kind of cup that found its currency in the seventies but kind of bled into the eighties. Unlike macrame which simply bled.

I have never been able to shake the feeling that if I ringed my index finger and thumb  around my big toe, I would be able to dislocate it. My toe, I mean. I fear that one day, it – again, I mean my toe – will get stuck in the drain of the bath.  I certainly do not find the thought of a foot massage sensual. No. Not in any way.