Now don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a thorough diagnosis when suffering from an ailment. However, when said ailment is broadcast to complete strangers, along with my name, address, phone number and CB radio handle...well I think I’d rather suffer in silence.
By the way, the following tale has nothing whatsoever to do with beautiful handmade to order children’s bedroom furniture, which we specialise in at Little Lucy Willow, but I thought I would tell you anyway...
The other day I was in the chemist thanks to a rather nasty bout of athlete's foot. I know you probably didn’t need to know that so I’m sorry if you were just munching on your corn ‘flakes’ whilst reading…
Anyway, it was a rather small shop, with just me, another customer waiting for her prescription and a pharmacist.
I was told by my chiropodist to buy a certain cream which as it turned out, happened to be residing behind the counter.
The lady conspiratorially leaned over the till and with a hand cupped to the side of her mouth loudly whispered “can I just ask what you need this for?”
I ‘conspiratorially’ replied in my loudest whisper with similarly cupped hand “athlete's foot”,
then looked to the ceiling and whistled a bit before nodding and smiling at the customer standing very closely to my left as if she heard nothing. I sighed to fill the silence, whilst thanking the Lord I didn’t need my cream for something a little more...private.
The pharmacist then enquired, with darting eyes and a super-spy voice, as to whether I was diabetic.
“No”, I confided, then upon her request was forced to describe in my quietest whisper (which still sounded super loud in the deafeningly silent shop), the state of my poorly foot to check I was getting the right treatment.
Whilst waiting for her to fetch my cream a second pharmacist appeared with a bag for my fellow customer, who by now had a little suppressed grin going on.
“Now just be careful to only apply this after wiping. It might get a little uncomfortable so I would advise…”
“Thank you, I get it.” The startled lady interjected.
Her flushed cheeks said it all.
A few days later, in the local supermarket, I noticed my fellow sufferer eyeing me over the spuds.
No doubt she was wondering how my nasty fungal infested foot was doing whilst taking comfort in the fact that I do not have diabetes.
Similarly, I was intrigued as to how recovery from her mysterious uncomfortable ailment was progressing.
After exchanging glances and a hint of acknowledgement I got my answer when she hobbled down the aisle like there was a hedgehog stuck down her trousers…