I hope you've finished your scrambled eggs because I'm going to talk about my verruca. Actually, I've got three of them, and over the past two months I've been having them gradually burned off with some strong acid once a fortnight. Nice. I have to keep a bandage on for three days, foot out of the bath sort of thing, and then remove it and pick up all the dead skin and hobble about until next time. I'm a martyr to them, I really am.
It's doing well, thanks, and now the dead capiliaries are showing. Hopefully next time it can be lifted out in one go and that will be the end of it. The other two are nearly gone. Apparently I've had the larger one for nearly five years. Who knew? Not me. I never go swimming and I'm pretty sure I didn't go near a pool in 2003. The podiatrist tells me not everyone is prone to them. Seems I am.
The last time I had one was in about 1973. We had to a go to a horrible little terraced house where an old crone in a nylon housecoat dug away at it with a scalpel for weeks on end, while trying to distract me with silly jokes. My held my hand throughout. The waiting room was dark, had swirly carpets, there was frosted glass and it smelt of feet. The magazines were doctors' waiting room thumbed. There were grubby toys.
Today, however, Finchley Road offers more salubrious surroundings. It's light and clean and bright and my podiatrist is younger than me. Lying there as he shaved the dead skin off my heel and made stilted conversation about NHS policies on new wonderdrugs, keeping house rabbits and bus services to Chalk Farm, I wondered why anyone would want to devote their life to feet, so I asked him.
Of course, he works all over London, he doesn't just do chiropody and when it comes to something like amputations then that's really very interesting and exciting. That said, he could spend every day of the week looking at people's verrucas. But he loves vascular surgery. I lay back as the colour drained from my already blanched face and hoped that all I would ever have to see him for would be this verruca.
So, nearly done, but if we can't extract it in one go next week then surgery beckons. I'll be off my feet for three weeks, if I still have feet.
Anyhoo, here's Julian Cope's relaxing Elegant Chaos to take you mind off things.
I was going to post a picture of a verruca but frankly it's sick-making.
4 comments:
Unwavering sympathy from me. As an ex-competitive swimmer, verrucae were the bane of my life. I had a total of 11 on my feet at one time - ten on my left, one on my right, and needed regular laser zaps via the local sadistic chiropodist.
Wearing a verruca sock during training is deeply unflattering.
The Late Mr Woodward would have just burnt them out with salycilic acid crystals. Probably not ethical, but by god, it worked.
They're revolting, aren't they? I caught one at the gym last year. I felt sullied. Apparently the more run-down you are, the longer they take to clear up. Mine took bloody ages. I hope yours are well on their way out.
This is totally unconnected with chiropody matters, but I thought of you this morning when I noticed that Sainsburys are selling bags of tangerines. Not satsumas or clementines, but actual tangerines, described as such on the packaging. Maybe it's time for a tangerine revival?
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