I’ve always been ticklish. In all sorts of places. The absolute worst part is my feet, exacerbated, I’m sure, by regular tickling attacks by my Uncle Adrian (hello!) who used to hold me up by my ankles and tickle me until I thought I was going to pass out. Hated it! Just to give you an idea of how ticklish I am, I can barely touch my own feet, and if I’m sat in close proximity to anyone (eg curled up on sofa or in cinema seat) I am very anxious if a hand goes near them. I usually look as if I’m having an attack of some sort.
It’s obviously not the worst affliction one could be saddled with, but it has rather come to the fore since living in Dubai, where mani/pedis are such a regular part of life. And before the ‘princess’ comments come out, your feet are on show, most of the time here, ok?! This means that trips to the spa are actually quite stressful, as I have to endure the tickling (hellish) but also the reactions of other customers, and now, it seems, the girls who work there.
I changed spa recently which meant a whole new audience for my childlike affliction. I managed to hold things together whilst the sink filled with water…I even kept quiet as the pedicurist swooshed it around with her hand and added some nice bath salt type things. But when the usual filing and scrubbing started, I couldn’t contain myself. I shrieked and squealed, with my legs going round in circles like a cartoon cat stuck on the spot. The woman in the seat next to me had the good grace to look vaguely sympathetic, and the girl working on my hands smiled shyly.
The pedicurist however, was having none of it. She looked incredulously at me and said: “Ticklish, ma’am?” with a look of horror most suited to accusing someone of child-snatching. “Yes” I whimpered. She retorted loudly: “Really madam, AT YOUR AGE?”.
Cheeky bint!!! If I hadn’t have been writhing around like a wildebeest caught in a river, I might have had a cutting retort. Instead I just whimpered. Sigh.