War

I’ve declared war!


My petition finally god accepted by the UN and so I’ve finally started the battle. It has taken months of political wrangling to get this far but every sanction I have imposed; every target I have set has been ignored. Enough is enough; I can take it no more, so I have sent the troups in to sort this problem out once and for all.

My Athlete’s foot has to go!

I can’t stand the itching anymore. At first it was quite comforting, almost like a friend giving my toes a little cuddle when they were lonely. There are few things nicer after a hard day’s commuting than kicking off your shoes and sitting scraping layers of skin from between your toes while relaxing in front of the TV. It becomes part of your life, like cleaning your teeth. How horrid would your mouth feel if you didn’t clean them in the morning? Well I was like that with my toes, they just didn’t feel good unless they god a damn good seeing to at night.

The problem is that I also quite like sex, and for some reason the sight of her man failing to discretely brush half his diseased feet down the side of the sofa isn’t really working for my wife. I know what you are thinking and you are right, Jo is a bit picky really – some people just don’t realise how lucky they are I guess.

Worse still, the fungus is spreading; it seems my toes aren’t quite enough for it. Now it wants more and is finding that it can have just as much fun with the rest of my feet too.

It has to go. It has to die. There will be no prisoners of war, there will be no surrender. This time it is personal.

I have been to the chemists and enlisted some mercenaries from Scholl Daktarin and Mycota to help me with my plight, and amused myself by using the special freebie Virgin Active sports towel I got when I ran the Bloomberg Mile as my new foot towel. It is a little sweat towel that is (I assume) somehow designed for use in the gym, at one end it has a little pocket with a zip. I’m not sure if the designer of this towel ever imagined that it would be perfect for keeping your athlete’s foot lotions and potions in, and drying between diseased toes, but no matter because he or she can pat herself on the back for a well designed bit of battle dress.

Wish me luck people, there can be only one survivor in this war and I’m kind of hoping it will be me! Don’t worry; I shall be updating you with news as the war rages. My special correspondents will send regular reports from the front line so you will be the first to know when I reclaim any territory for use with normal skin.

On a completely different note, I want to tell you about a conversation between my wife and six year old son tonight. Jamie has been learning about the Moon landings at school, I say learning…


“Liam Armstrong wasn’t the only person to walk on the Moon”

“Wasn’t he?” (suppressing chuckle and urge to correct astronaut's name)

“No there was another man too”

“That’s right – good boy”

“And there was another man who had to drive the spaceship and didn’t get to land”

“Really?”

“Yes, Miss said that she felt sorry for him because people don’t remember him, I feel sorry for him too but we learned about him today, so he isn’t forgotten”

“Brilliant – what was his name then?”

“….......I can’t remember”

I love that boy.


Have a nice weekend