A Strange Kettle of Fish

Last week: I had a Fish Pedicure

A French girl I once met declared that I had the ugliest feet she had seen in her life. Better than the ugliest face, you cheeky bint.

Most people have suffered from problem feet at one time or another. Without going into too much detail - in case you happen to be eating your breakfast whilst reading this - the heat brings out all manner of complaints when it comes to my plates of meat. And let's face it, you only have one pair, so it's absolutely vital to take care of them. It's only since the discovery of Camper and Crocs that I can walk around comfortably, without being half crippled in the summer months. And before you turn your nose up at my peculiar fashion sense, check out the Crocs website; they don't just stock models that you'd only wear to a day out in your local morgue.

I endeavour to look after and treat my feet as much as possible. I've rarely been tempted to squeeze my size 7s into dainty stilettos and, although I can't really afford extravagant pedicures, I occasionally indulge in the odd self-pampering session. My Body Shop loyalty card ensures that I am kept in healthy supplies of Peppermint Foot Lotion and I am the proud owner of rows of little bottles of varnish covering every shade of the spectrum (I don't recommend yellow). I even have some of those squidgy toe separator things, although my main application of them involves me amusing myself by walking around the house pretending I have webbed feet.

On Saturday, three of my girlie friends and I headed into town to try out the latest pampering fad to hit Belgium: the Fish Pedicure. The hour long treat entailed a 25 minute fish pedicure followed by an essential oil foot massage with a glass of champagne thrown in to boot. It was all very Sex and The City, if you think whiter than white towelling slippers rather than Jimmy Choos.

This curious procedure involves rolling up your trouser legs and immersing your feet into a tank full of water and small, wriggly fish called Garra Rufa all the way from Turkey. In no time at all, your new friends set about attacking the problem areas of your feet by nibbling away any hard, dead cells, leaving you with hooves smoother than a Luther Vandross album.

Beforehand, I had pondered the logic behind this. Is there any kind of training involved? Do these fish make minimum wage? On further research I discovered that these little creatures make a beeline for the dead skin on your feet as they see it as a rather tasty source of protein, no motivation necessary. Personally I'd prefer a nice juicy chicken breast, but, whatever floats your boat.

On my first encounter with the Garra Rufa, I succumbed to incontrollable fits of giggles which were received slightly disapprovingly by our hostesses at the Aquaderm Spa. But it was just a knee-jerk reaction - the sensation was so uncomfortably ticklish that I couldn't help myself. I had to concentrate on relaxing my body and focus on my breathing rhythm and, once I had mastered this, it was actually rather pleasant. I guess it was not unlike massaging your feet with an electric toothbrush, not that this is something I put into practice on a regular basis.

Maria claimed that the fish were only interested in her left foot and, as she took her turn before me in the same tank, I also wondered why they were still hungry enough to feast on my bunions and verrucas, the greedy little blighters. No wonder they have doubled in size since they first arrived on Belgian soil, as the girls at the spa explained.

 

Maria stars in "My Left Foot".


As we sauntered out of the spa heading for the nearest ice-cream parlour, we all agreed that the difference to our previously weathered feet was remarkable and that the fish had executed their task extremely well. Our tootsies felt almost as good as Fergie's after an afternoon with John Bryan. And for a mere €22,50, we felt we had got our money's worth (although, they could have served us the remainder of the bottle of champagne).

Would I try this again?: I'm thinking about investing in a tank built into the floor, about two metres away from the telly.