FEET OF FLAME

I think I’ve got precisely two ways of walking up stairs. I worked it out today on my way into the office.

By the way, a big old raspberry to anyone who thinks my life is dull. If anything proves what a rip-roaring, roller-coaster of a time I’m having, then it’s surely this.

Alright. So Method 1 is the full on bound up two stairs at a time. I do this at the station, especially if the train is slowly rolling in on the platform I’m heading for. It feels good; much like striding on the moving walkway at the airport and pretending you’re a giant. In some small way it also feels like free cardio too - lunge.

Method 2, I’ve realised, is more measured. I do this one on the way up to the office (it’s on the second floor). Why not take the lift? I don’t hear you ask. Well, friends. It’s not the nicest lift. And it’s mostly mirrors.

No, my lovely office-stairs-method is one step at a time, yes, but I’ve noticed that I’m using only the balls of my feet. All the weight, all the pressure is carried there, one foot at a time, and weirdly, only on the front 20% of the step. My heels hover off the edge, probably quite dangerously. The toes push, the foot bends, up I pivot.

Now. Am I setting myself up for a nasty accident? Bounding up like an excitable puppy at the railway station feels like a boyish recipe for disaster. Tip-toeing my way up two flights of concrete steps in a shared office space - seems risky.

I need to put my whole foot on the step either way, don’t I? Plus, I don’t think I should rush. Most often there’s no real need.

Funnily enough I haven’t considered how to walk down stairs yet. I think it would be mad to take them two steps at a time (though no less dangerous I suppose than my current methods), so I probably tipple down them quickly, like Michael Flatley. Though I bet he does a little Riverdancey pirouette at the bottom.  

I’m often compared to Michael Flatley, you know. It must be the sequins.