I tried many puns before I settled on a straightforward title for this post. The subject is just too unfunny for words.
It is widely known that ticks are becoming more common. Rife, in fact. We have regularly visited areas such as Glen Affric, the Cairngorms and more recently Wester Ross over the past fifteen years (as we live up here, it's not too tricky) and until relatively recently, had never had a tick problem. Ciara managed to pick one up on a school trip to Glen Affric, but in all fairness, most have been collected locally, in and around our own garden, not to mention the tricky little sucker that must have crawled up my arm to my cleavage from the ridiculously huge Christmas tree we had in December. (My husband peering at my chest with magnifying glass in one hand and fine nosed tweezers in the other caused much amusement. To some...)
It had become a topic of conversation that I'll be ok if (when) I pick up a tick as we wend our (hopefully very!) merry little way across Scotland, but it could be a little tricky for David. The sensible solution appeared to be that we would purchase a tick removing device and I would practice on the next critter.
Imagine my dismay when, ten minutes after David has left the building destined for Manchester for a fortnight, Ciara presents herself as I'm eating my breakfast, proffers me her foot and states, "I've got a tick on my foot!"
Not just on her foot I might add, between her big toe and the next one in the tiniest crease there is a tiny tick.
I think I can cope with the tick, I shall have to manage (carefully) with magnifying glass and tweezers.
I think this counts as rigourous training, after which I shall need a lie down, a cold flannel and I might have to sneak a dram from the Talisker I've secreted away for the holiday.
Someone round here has a particularly sick sense of humour.