I guess this is not really a topic I should write about, but then, I have written about more distasteful things before. The title of this post is an old Afrikaans word which literally means "rotten foot". I think it refers to a disease among cattle.
I've never had any problems with my feet; until we got the pets I was barefoot whenever I could be. That has become impossible since Alfred the Spontaneous Pisser has shown up along with his merry band of mess makers. The floor has become a disaster area, only cleaned occasionally when we expect guests. Soon after it starts accumulating debris again.
At the moment, without looking too hard, I can see the following on the floor: sharp bones discarded by the dogs, cat and dog pellets, hair of both human and animal origin, crisps of at least four different kinds, beer bottle tops, toothpics - used and unused, shreds of every conceivable paper. The list goes on.
So I guess in that breeding ground one of us was bound to contract a disease and I have been chosen. Last night I discovered that I had been attacked by a vicious strain of what I call the foot pong fungus. This is a photograph showing the affected part of my left foot. It is very painful, especially the pink area which stays clammy. It is as if the fungus is eating all the outer layers of my skin, exposing the sensitive inner layers. No, Mother, my foot isn't dirty, it's diseased. Those spots you can see are new colonies spreading.
This morning I drove to Clicks to spend a vulgar sum of money on Mycota ointment for athlete's foot as well as AF Powder for athlete's foot, ringworm and dhobie itch. I don't know which one of those I have, but I hope the stuff I bought zaps those nasty buggers. I want my nice healthy foot back. The drive was extremely uncomfy since I use exactly that part of my foot for controlling the clutch pedal.
I've just cleaned my feet, applied ointment and powder. I have also started taking Echinacea to help my body fight the infestation. It feels better already.
This is what you get when you spend almost 12 hours a day at work wearing shoes.
On my way home, I stopped at an old couple next to the road who were selling the local Afrikaans Sunday newspaper, Rapport. I always feel awkward when an older person calls me "Mister". The old man came running when I stopped and was anxious to show me there was a promotional DVD in the paper, as if I wouldn't buy it without that.
Up close, I could see that he was really very old. When I told him he could keep the change, he was enormously thankful. He said, "God, thanks Mister." As I drove home, I found tears running down my face. I had made someone's day for only R8. My own problems fade in comparison to what others are dealing with.
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