My Sore Foot

I've got a sore foot, my left foot, it aches. It has hurt for some time, since I went back to work. The Tuesday after Easter was the first time that I noticed it, as I walked into the city for my first assignment for the year, with Sam. There is a kind of lump in the arch of my foot, more like a swelling than a tumour, more like a strain than cancer, if you know what I mean. It hurts to walk. At first, I thought it was my work shoes, walking into town in them, but it seems to hurt in other shoes too, now.

Sam is big with Deep Heat, he always has a tube handy. I hate the smell of it, quite frankly. Oh yuk. He said I should put some on my foot. "It should make it better."

But the smell? Er! I don't like it. (I could feel my hair go a tinge of red as I said that) So, I got the tube of ointment and thrust it at him and then I gave him my foot. And a pleading look.

"Please, can you rub it on? Please honey, please? You rub it in the best. Better than anyone."

"Really?"

"Please honey, I hate the smell of it on my hands. (And I do) And you do it better than I do." (Puppy dog eyes)

"I do?"

"You do. And you don't seem to mind the smell."

So, for the last two nights Sam has massaged my poor sore foot for me. I think the pain below his fingertips is all the therapy I need. It hurts to make it better. It feels nice, of course, who'd say the opposite. Nobody, I don't reckon.

He's lovely, my boyfriend.

He irons my shirts. Big smile. I said tonight that I had to go and iron a shirt for tomorrow night. 

"I've ironed them for you, for the rest of the week. The shirts are in the cupboard with mine."

He cooks dinner most nights, he makes the food. You may think this is a pretty sweet deal, however, I do the cleaning up afterwards. This, of course, gives him licence to use every dish, plate and implement in the kitchen. I, of course, taught him everything he knows. Oh, except for the stir-fried noodles and the curries.

We both head to the supermarket daily. We never seem to be able to buy for more than one day's meals, we can't make that many food decisions. One night’s dinner is the most I can decide on. We need to develop a menu, a style, a house cuisine.

Still, that means the dogs gets walked every day.

Sam puts the leftovers in my red lunch box for me to take to work. I haven't had to buy lunch for the last two weeks. You've got to luv that, I luv that.

He's lovely, really. Lucky me. Count my blessings? Every day.