None so blind as those who will not see

Why can’t we just see when to give up, rather than blindly stumbling back for more?

I’ve just returned from Boots, after another humiliating failure to fit contact lenses.  I tried years ago, but was persuaded back given the apparent leap in ocular technology - and the fact that playing footy in bendy specs makes me look less like Beckham and more an accident waiting to happen.

But I’m a terrible pupil, and just can't get them to work.  At some level I think I don’t want them:  my failing sight handicaps my ball skills, but does that justify my eyes being jabbed by fingers, and foreign objects covering my cornea?

Yet I hate being a quitter – and this is the second such failure in a month, following my attempt at another kind of contact – trying to enjoy a massage.  How hard can that be?

A few years ago nobody would have foreseen we would now rely on daily disposables or a weekly spa.  Except me: not only have I shunned contacts, I’ve never enjoyed a relaxing massage either.  

It's hard to even get started.  I’m blind to subtle social signals, so spotting a suitable venue is a challenge, especially when I was in Cambodia.  How do you tell a spa dedicated to ancient oriental body art from the front-end of a brothel where a ‘happy ending’ is just the start? 

After an embarrassing first attempt, I persevered with a foolproof strategy:  I’d visit a posh place, on a main road, during the day, and with backup. 

On entering I locked eyes with the girl and stressed I wanted it “very gentle”.  Khmer style, like Thai, is seriously physical – fingers and toes bent back, arms and legs pummeled, they’ll even climb on your back to get extra leverage on your torso. 

But she turned a blind eye to my request, and the full torture regime was implemented as usual.

Worse still, others’ thought I was actually enjoying the experience:  Katja claims that from her perspective – on the next couch – my pleasure was clearly visible to her and all the masseuses!

Physically and emotionally scarred, it was nearly two years before I tried again.  The cunning plan this time was to be massaged by a blind man - genius!  No fear of misunderstandings, just a guarantee of a guy acutely in tune with his remaining senses. 

Not so!  This wasn’t seeing hands so much as fingers in ears – how else could he have so consistently ignored my screams for mercy?  Never again, I swore – that was it between me and massage. 

Until, that is, arriving back in the UK my great friend Pree announced she had qualified as a massage therapist, and to celebrate was offering ‘free’ sessions with just a contribution to a good cause.  My judgment clouded by the forces of charity and friendship, I headed to south London to give it one last try.

It was the best massage I’ve ever had! 

The atmosphere helped – a flat I know well, relaxing music, aromatic oils and a friend’s reassuring touch.  Pree obviously knows her stuff, worked hard, and was clearly delighted at the number of knots she removed from my lumpy trunk.

But the truth is, it’s still not for me.   Gentle rubbing is fine, tactile good, stroking great - but those aren’t massage.  You see, it’s about doing you good, not you feeling good.

So I’ve come to my senses.  I see my future sporting bendy specs and a knotted back - but mercifully free of the humiliation, manipulation and pain of either contact lenses or massage!