In the realms of illness I have, touch wood, never had much to complain about. Most of my ailments have been decidedly middle-class and that goes for the ridiculous tale of the toenail on the big toe of my left foot (there's the name for a book).
Today I can finally put that to bed, because today at 12.31pm my podiatrist 'signed off' my toe as fixed. That might not seem a big thing, but considering this fella has been dogging me since May 2006 I feel like dancing with delight. Dancing being something I can do now, rather than hobbling round like Herr Flick from Allo Allo.
I banged the toe in the pool on my honeymoon and since then I've been having treatment, on and off, for three and half years. That's, like, 1270 sleeps. That's longer than a 'serious' relationship. It's nearly the distance between two world cups, a period of time any man will tell you is FAR TOO LONG.
And it's been painful. Ooh. Like you wouldn't believe. Like someone sticking a little nail in your foot and jiggling it whenever you moved. And laughing at you. Stupid thing. Seriously, If I wanted that sort pf constant irritation I'd buy a boxset of Myleene Klass presenting on TV.
I reckon it's cost me the best part of £500 from check ups and bandages to . £500? I could have had a surround sound system for that. Or one hell of a night out.
Anyway, there's no point harping on about it, because it's fixed. It's done and as my podiatrist said so nicely to me "Hope not to see you again soon."
Toe-riffic.
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