I Am Foot-Washed

I cycled to my allotment first thing - let's say 7.00am. It was a continual and sun-washed morning in this long drought of UK summer, and even though I wasn't as hot as I've been in recent days, I relished the gift of water lurching from the watering can onto my feet as I splashed the courgettes, beans, tomatoes, and the monstrous one-fruit-a-day cucumber plant which has taken occupation of the greenhouse. As the first washing included a residue of allotment soil, I carried out a quick second rinsing of my feet in the afternoon prior to going out again. I book a massage from time to time - it requires forward-booking and then, as is my wont, a last minute dash to be ready to go. My organised part, let's call her Kanga, anticipates my need to be taken out of my tendency to busyness to balance the way I (my Rabbit part) fill my days with the work ethic which runs into me like a given, a sort of kettle flex, rarely switched off at the mains. Booking a massage means bracketing a…