Will Harris on why pedicures are a fishy business

Beneath the glass dome of the shopping centre, against the roar of the Saturday crowds, two men sit with their feet in fishtanks. “Oh God,”
I say. “Excuse me? Miss? We’ve got a floater over here.” Michael leans in from the next seat over, and sighs in exasperation. “I really don’t know how you do it,” he says.

The tiny garra rufa fish beside my ankle stares up balefully from the water’s surface, mouth hanging open in wordless accusation. It’s definitely dead.

“Huh,” grunts the woman in charge of the pediquarium, producing a net from somewhere about her person and using it to hook the unfortunate creature towards her. “Never seen that before”.

Perhaps it’s my imagination, but it feels disconcertingly like some of the shoppers around us are slowing down to get a better look. Michael, I notice, is shaking behind his magazine.

“How I do it?” I hiss. “I wouldn’t even be in this situation if it wasn’t for you. ‘I know what would be fun. Why don’t we go to that place in the mall where fish eat the dead skin off your feet.’ Well thank you very much. Ritual humiliation accomplished for another week, and ahead of schedule.”

“Oh, relax,” says Michael, as he settles back into his seat and flicks through his copy of Vanity Fair, apparently oblivious to the shoal of silver fish grazing happily on his insteps. “Nobody cares. Just focus on how smooth those horny trotters of yours are going to look after this.”

“All the fish in my tank are hanging around idly, almost as if waiting for a better offer”

I stare into the water below and flex my toes. It’s no use. All the fish in my tank are hanging around idly, almost as if waiting for a better offer. Every so often one of them will dart in for a closer look, only to think better of it and flicker away again. This, I’m surprised to find, leaves me feeling personally aggrieved. I can’t help but think of all the times I’ve been told not to worry, that there’s plenty more fish in the sea. Well, it’s a real low blow when even the fish don’t want you.

“That’s another thing,” I say. “Ten minutes we’ve been sitting here, and I’ve barely had a nibble. I mean trust me to end up with the tank where they’ve all got eating disorders. What is this, the Sylvia Young school of fish?”

I don’t know why I should be so surprised. This is almost as bad as the time my friends clubbed together to buy me a full body massage. There I was, desperately trying to relax, when the stereo started blaring out the theme to The X Files (rendered by pan pipes), and I was forced to spend the next half hour face-down, terrified to move, and firmly convinced I was about to be probed.