I've mentioned before that I have quite a close relationship with my pharmacist. He's short of stature and bald as an egg, with a winsome demeanour and creepily small hands. I entertain his awkward flirtations, he fills my lengthy prescriptions. We make it work. So imagine his surprise and delight this morning when I hobbled into his shop and hoiked up my skirt. Did I say delight? I meant horror. He licked his eyebrows for a second or two as the hem lifted but when he saw the state of the thigh I was proffering for his inspection - puffy and swollen with a nasty red bite - there was a flicker of revulsion before he forced his solicitous face back on.
The bite in question was not from an adventurous lover, but a midge. A common-or-garden in my fucking back garden midge. I am n'allergick to the little bastards and am usually careful (that intoxicating fragrance? It's deet, darling...) but in a fit of overtiredness and hangover I shed boots and tights when I got in from Cork on Monday evening and sat bare-legged in the garden, eating my dinner. When I woke yesterday morning, my thigh had swollen to the size of a tree trunk (and okay, it wasn't that far off it to begin with, but at least it was pleasantly milky in colour). I stuffed myself with antihistamines and slathered on the cortisone before heading into work, where I divided my day between whiny complaining and narcoleptic napping.
Determined to rid myself of stumpthigh, I shambled stiff-legged into Pharmacist this morning to demand that he make it better. I showed him my grievous injury (much to the amusement of the mean lady pharmacist*) but all I got was sympathy, an ice-pack and more fucking antihistamines. Unwilling to suffer another dozy day in work, I took some Pro Plus to counteract their soporific effects and found myself wide eyed and knackered, cranky as a crack addict for the morning (and with a freezing cold, massive and still red and itchy thigh).
Good times.
My sympathetic co-workers suggested that I shut the fuck up whining about it and try a poultice when I got home. I reckoned it couldn't hurt, so I've replaced the ice-pack with some warm soggy bread, and made quite the mess in the kitchen. Honestly, I don't think I've ever looked this fetching - in my pants, covered in sog, living in squalor, wild-eyed with itchy distress, and blogging about it.
The bite in question was not from an adventurous lover, but a midge. A common-or-garden in my fucking back garden midge. I am n'allergick to the little bastards and am usually careful (that intoxicating fragrance? It's deet, darling...) but in a fit of overtiredness and hangover I shed boots and tights when I got in from Cork on Monday evening and sat bare-legged in the garden, eating my dinner. When I woke yesterday morning, my thigh had swollen to the size of a tree trunk (and okay, it wasn't that far off it to begin with, but at least it was pleasantly milky in colour). I stuffed myself with antihistamines and slathered on the cortisone before heading into work, where I divided my day between whiny complaining and narcoleptic napping.
Determined to rid myself of stumpthigh, I shambled stiff-legged into Pharmacist this morning to demand that he make it better. I showed him my grievous injury (much to the amusement of the mean lady pharmacist*) but all I got was sympathy, an ice-pack and more fucking antihistamines. Unwilling to suffer another dozy day in work, I took some Pro Plus to counteract their soporific effects and found myself wide eyed and knackered, cranky as a crack addict for the morning (and with a freezing cold, massive and still red and itchy thigh).
Good times.
My sympathetic co-workers suggested that I shut the fuck up whining about it and try a poultice when I got home. I reckoned it couldn't hurt, so I've replaced the ice-pack with some warm soggy bread, and made quite the mess in the kitchen. Honestly, I don't think I've ever looked this fetching - in my pants, covered in sog, living in squalor, wild-eyed with itchy distress, and blogging about it.
*I've just realised that that post is dedicated to Billser too. People will think we have a problem.
