Hopefully I'll stay awake for the whole Liverpool-ManUnited game that starts at midnight.
I'm in the process of procrastinating about several assessments and this blog is testament to that. At this stage I've spent a gob of time working on it (and the offshoots you can link to from the left). It's enjoyable though.
A friend went to the podiatrist the other day and found out she has tinea, and it's nasty. There, I said it. She has 'her' story. This, is mine...
'Apparently' she got it from me, although I have no foot dandruff, am not sloughing skin from between my toes and have no horrible odour wafting from my feet, strong and pungent at a distance up to four feet. My friend, on the other hand, does.
Of course, having insisted it was 'my' feet from whence this offensive odour had spread, she refused to believe it was not. Finally, after we finished watching some DVD together the other night, throughout which I had mentioned I could, and would rather prefer not to, smell her feet from aforementioned four feet away, she demanded proof she was the culprit. How was this proof to be gained? Why, by having one of the offending feet presented for my smelling, of course!
And so, Milose....sorry. And so, in the dirty murk of the darkened room, late at night as I stood to leave, I bent for an obligatory smell of the proffered foot, convinced already this was one of the two culprits who had assaulted my senses.
And assaulted I was. The darkened room masked my attacker, but as I leaned forward, her violent stench took me by surprise. I stumbled. I tipped. Suddenly two foul toes clawed at my nose while a third tried to push past my upper lip so as to gain entry into my mouth (it was just like in Alien I tell you!). I was nearly overcome, but bravely struggled to my feet, spitting and gagging and screamed, "It IS your bloody feet!!! Agghlleghh! pthah!"
At this point I will admit, I jumped around like... well, like I would if a large huntsman (5-6" spider for you Americans) had just run up my pants. Then I went and washed my nose and mouth until I bled. No I didn't. Come to think of it...I didn't wash my face at all after this traumatic episode. Oh, that's right, I licked my lips. No, I didn't do that either... even to think it is wrong, and yet I have. I think I just walked away in shock.
It should come as no surpise that I've taken to wearing thongs (flip-flops for you Americans) in the shower. I don't want the Angel of Foot-Death coming knocking on my door.
Good timing - Liverpool-ManU about to kick off. Cairn the Reds!
the earley edition - Posted by Dave @ 4/24/2004 10:16:00 pm || ||
