The Five Stages of Athlete’s Foot:
Day One: “Ooh dear, that’s a bit itchy.”
Day Two: [takes off sock] “Ewww! It looks like some alien life form is gnawing its way through the flesh between my phalanges. Must pop along to the chemist tomorrow and get something for that.”
Day Three: “Hello, NHSDirect? Yes, unfortunately it appears that one of my toes has become detached and I was wondering if you could tell me how best to pack it up to take to the hospital. Damn. I know left it here somewhere…”
Day Four: “Okay, we don’t have any weapons on board [points at schematic hologram], but if we can drive it up towards the loading bay with these makeshift flame-throwers we should be able to force it out of the airlock on level seven.”
Day Five: “I say we nuke it from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.”
lol
Yucky. You should’ve kept your piggies clean and dry.
I should point out, Sigourney, that I am normally scrupulous to the point of OCD about personal hygiene, and (thanks to the bravery of the Colonial Marines) the situation has now been normalized.
Ironically it was my stopping exercising that gave the “athlete”‘s foot its opening. What happened was that I got a stinking cold over Christmas and went from working out like a loon, showering twice a day (before sprinkling “medicated” talc between my toes) to lying around in bed feeling sorry for myself and barely bothering to shave (even the top of my head). Yes, poor lifestyle choices, I know.
Day three: What did NHS direct tell you to do? Take three asprin and lie down?