So today I went up to the orthotic center in Thorndon. Which is lovely this time of year may I add. Thorndon, not the orthotic center, though that had a certain footsy charm I suppose.
In any case I was seen by a nice gentleman, in his sixties I would guess, replete in comfortable sweater vest and expensive trousers. He measured my feet with a wooden calliper thingee and made humming and harring noises in the medical equivalent of "parts are gonna be a bastard"and then rummaged out back for a few moments, returning with the ugliest pair of special diabetic shoes I've ever seen.
The saving grace is that they are black. They look like very chunky, cheap black synthetic sport shoes. What they are is actually very expensive, but handily subsidised black synthetic orthotic shoes, that will support my feets under the arch. They also have a very soft material top that puts no pressure on my toes at all. It made me feel like my foot was in a small boat with a canvas covering or something.
I don't have to wear them on a permanent basis, fortunately. They're for while my delicate little toe-nubs are still healing up and should result in better foot support and also less pain while hobbling around. That's the idea, anyway.
So yeah, that's that. I pick them up later on in the week and will of course present photographic evidence for your edification and titillation. On the way out I paused to chat to two very nice old ladies about a map of Wellington on the wall, and then hobbled down to the Parliament building and caught a taxi home with a driver who played very loud, mournful country music. He seemed so wrapped up in his sorrow that I couldn't bring myself to comment on what a nice day it was.
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