My toe fungal infection continues to be a headache.
Having paid a fortune to buy a box of what promises to cure my horrible disease, I opened it up one night last week to begin the treatment, only to be confronted with a guide booklet of several pages, some disgusting pictures of different types of toes at various stages of fungal infections (seriously, if your toe looked like it was going to fall off your foot should you be reading about it from a box? Should you not be screaming all the way to your hospital???), a box of files, a plastic thing of plastic sticks, some packets of wipes and a bottle of liquid. At 10pm at night I decided to listen to an Oscar Wilde play instead, and left it until I had a clear head, a full stomach, and a medical degree.
Lilsister has continued to be unsupportive, saying it’s fair enough if my toes are falling off but can they please be fixed in time for her upcoming nuptials.
My toes and I are not feeling the love.
No way am I going to Sligo I decided on the weekend, Mammy and Papabear are going to Lanzarote and by God, I will tag along! So it’s sun and non-Atlantic bracing winds for me, and perhaps some alcohol and a pool.
Instead, today is the first day of Battle Eat Better – I would get up early, possibly exercise and buy chickpeas.
It has not gone well.
I woke up late, after a night of odd dreams, where I had to apply for permission at a desk to have a passport photo taken of me, and then somehow managed to be in my front garden where I kept finding a variety of giant snails and teddy bears that looked like real animals, which all frightened me. Then when I was walking from my garden to the front door a creature with the face of a field mouse and the body of a cat kept jumping in front of me and saying ‘ha ha ha’. I was extremely stressed when I woke up, and decided I would not exercise as I was already sweating.
Have managed to buy the chickpeas though, and tonight I am cooking up a middle eastern feast of falafel with paprika yoghurt dip and roast veg cous cous, much healthier than my normal fare which usually includes mash. I have earmarked a half hour to clean the glass surrounding my shower but I cannot guarantee it will be done. No woman can do everything.
Just because you have some sellotape on your fingers does not give you the right to parade around as a Michael Jackson impersonator.
I had decided to forgo watching my beloved Dublin football team play what turned out to be an absolute belter of a match against Mayo in order to see this cretin. I had hoped that he would be bad, that wasn’t the problem, the problem was that I showed up at 8pm and he came on after a bloke with glasses and a tracksuit who sang Bob Marley songs, at an unholy 11pm.
He was short and fat with greased back long hair tied into a ponytail. He had a hugely receding hairline. Then he put on a black hat and shades and began to screech Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’. It was ok. The Baker said a professional troupe of impersonators were in Dublin at the moment and perhaps he was one of them, then he failed to hit the high notes on Billie Jean and we said no way. Then at the end he said he was part of a professional troupe of impersonators who were in Dublin and I continued drinking the beers from a large ‘five beers in a bucket’ promotion the pub was doing. Middlebro kept shaking his head and saying it was wrong wrong wrong. He is a bit of a purist when it comes to music.
A lot of people then began grabbing their crotches and doing really bad dance moves. A group of badly dressed (meaning barely dressed) girls with extensions then chatted up the non-impersonator and the tracksuited singer and once again I wondered how people like that could score whilst I can’t.
Next morning I woke up in splendour in the guest FLOOR of Middlebro and The Baker’s new house and Middlebro knocked politely to tell me he was heading in for a beer poo but would do the fry up immediately afterwards.
It was whilst myself and The Baker were making second breakfast, in my humble ever belly-rumbling opinion the most important meal of the day, that Middlebro decided his nipples were too hairy. He then proceeded to cut them, whilst standing over the bin, despite our protests and the smell of the chocolate melting into the pastries in the oven.
We were told it was not something to be upset about as it was ”only” me and The Baker there, and besides, the hairs were falling directly into the waste disposal area.
This was my first time staying in their new abode and it may be my last as I was distinctly told not to blog about this. I told Middlebro not to interfere with my rights as an artist and then we both laughed.
Time for a road trip, I think. I have spent the last two months recovering from the horror that was my last job and I am feeling better lately. I have certainly put on weight – I always lose it when depressed, and the lost depression bits have come back, so now I know I am well.
To challenge myself, I have picked somewhere I have to drive to as I hate driving and hate driving anywhere new, unless there is a man involved which always motivates me. I’ve also picked somewhere that does not look like Dublin at all, as I need a complete change of scenery. So I am going to the Atlantic – to the Sligo coast, to a bed and breakfast that has farm in its title but does not appear to have a farm anywhere near it. In fact, there’s nothing near it, except a beach which up that part of Ireland is usually deserted. I am absolutely terrified – of the drive, and of the fact that I will have to deal with people, something I have never been good with. I will have my own room however, so should basic conversation get the better of me, I can bang my head off my own wall in private until the panic passes.
To be blunt, I have a fungal infection in my big toe.
I never had one before so I didn’t know what it was, I just thought my toe looked a little funny and as I am ALWAYS pedicured (I may wear tracksuits on a daily basis and the same jumper two days running but the feet department are always tidy and colour enhanced) I didn’t really notice that it has spread to my other big toe.
I discussed the matter with Lilsister the other day, she being the expert, having had every foot disease known to man (and some unknown, when she first arrived on my doorstep in Adelaide in Australia she had a green toenail. We went immediately to the chemist who asked to have a look at it so she could recommend a product to cure it. The chemist JUMPED BACK when Lilsister took her toe out, like you would do if confronted by a particularly hairy spider in the bathroom, which happened to me in Sydney one night – it was as big as my hand and its legs were as thick as my fingers. Not a country to live in.).
After my discussion with the expert I trotted down to the first chemist as I had ordered some concoction there to treat my toes with (yes, it had to be ORDERED in). After waiting for a depressing young woman rabbiting on about how her headache tablets had caffeine and kept her awake at night till seven am! I was finally told by the chemist that my bloody toe order hadn’t come in (it was due in on Monday, today is Wednesday, what is the problem?). I then told the caffeine addict beside me to take off her bright pink velour tracksuit as that would immediately see an end to her headaches and caffeine anecdotes, seriously, it was giving me epilepsy.
The second quite camp chemist entered into a deep and meaningful with me about what my toe looked like, I think he secretly wanted to see it but as it was covered in royal blue nail varnish I couldn’t. He then disgustingly produced some pictures of toe fungi which made me retch and defend myself by saying I have a bit of this, and a bit of that, but my toe is sir, NOTHING like these pictures. I am not an animal! He then tried to get me to buy the treatment that makes your nail fall off, something also recommended by Lilsister, but as this is hideous I refused to bite.
Anyway 25 euro later I am the proud owner of a treatment box which I have to apply once a week to the ‘filed down, infected’ area. Treatment will take MONTHS allegedly, because I am too much of a baby to do it the quick way and have my nail fall off (ugh). Oh – and I cannot paint my toenails during this time. And summer around the corner! If it has not healed by then I will not go around unvarnished, damn the consequences!!!
Whilst in therapy today, I came up with an idea for a sitcom. Is this good or bad? My counsellor says it’s a good idea, but it’s not the idea, it’s the location of the springing up of the idea that concerns me.
Another good thing about therapy is its location is across the road from the discount supermarket where I get my butter (I got four today, buy in bulk Mammy says when it’s cheap) and even more importantly, a really nice Thai takeaway (hard to find in Dublin, in my humble opinion). I came home ready to butter up my veggie spring rolls and wok fried chicken. Bliss!