We lived in Australia until I was almost 10. My brother, who is 5 years younger than me, desperately wanted cracked feet like his friend. My mother kept trying to tell him that actually he didn’t, that cracks are painful. He didn’t understand the pain. Nor did I, until I got a crack on my heel, 35 years later.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. I’d spent 4 weeks living in slippers at my parents’ recuperating from surgery. I’d finally managed to move home, but still had to take it easy for another couple of weeks. When I was finally ready, and able, to pack up my house, pack my bag and leave, it struck. It was just a small crack on one of my heels, but it was debilitating. Continue reading