It’s 11 o’clock on a Thursday morning and I would normally be bashing away at a keyboard or on the phone to a workmate. Instead, I am in a south London nail bar, reclining in a motorised armchair, mechanical fingers kneading my back while my feet soak in a little whirlpool bath. Someone has brought me coffee. In the seat next to me, another customer sighs: “This is the life!” before telling me about her ingrown toenail.
It is indeed, and if I wasn’t so comfy, I would be tempted to get up and kick myself. It has taken me 61 years to have my first-ever pedicure, and the moment I sat down all I could think was: “Why did it take me so long?”
