You know, Dr Jackson, you don't know everything!

That nasty sting ray had the last laugh. My toe got infected. The story is actually a smidge longer than that; I'll try to spare some of the podiatric details. But they may, after all, be too integral to the story to omit.

I saw my doctor - the lovely and amazing Dr Win - last Monday. My toe was purple, shiny, like a Li'l Sausage, cooked and rolling around with its siblings in the frying pan. She said "Not to worry, my dear!" (Dr Win does not actually talk like that, but her accent is much more difficult to type than one would expect.) "'Tis only a bruise! It will heal, morphing smoothly through various colors of purple, green and yellow. I shouldn't worry..... unless it turns red." The last she said rather ominously.

As luck would have it, the bruise and swelling morphed immediately to a normal looking digit. The only indication of my brave battle with the creature from the black lagoon was a small red puncture, and even that was disappearing daily. All was well.

And then, lo, on Sunday morning, I woke to the most excruciating sensation in my foot. The urge to scratch was surpassed only by the urge to sleep, and so it was ignored momentarily. Walking, once I rose, became slightly more difficult over the course of the day, and the itching increased exponentially.

Fast forward (we have this technology now, how quaint) to Monday evening. The advice nurse advises - as is her job - an appointment on Tuesday morning, to reassess the toe situation. Alas, there were no appointments to be found, and I was looking at a journey to urgent care or even - gasp - emergency! Fortunately, those lovely women at urgent care saw the necessity and fit me quickly in to Dr Jackson's role-call.

Sitting down to wait my turn, I flipped to Chapter 36 of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and immediately was called behind the magic door. How quick, I exclaimed. Shaking hands with the doctor, I proceed to advise him of the situation; since he is not my lovely and amazing Dr Win, I needed bring him up to speed, so to speak.

At once he began to contradict me! The nerve! "That was no sting ray; it could not possibly have been. It was a jelly fish. You were quite mistaken, but that's to be expected." He said the last with a disdainful glance at me and my poor sausage toe. I beg your pardon doctor, but you were not there. You did not hear the warnings from the life guards, from the surf instructors, and from the administrators and judges of the swim competition. It most certainly was a sting ray.

The doctor and I locked gazes, raised our wands and-

Hmm, a bit distracted by Harry Potter. A momentary sidestep. Forgive me.

The doctor and I locked gazes, neither of us willing to concede to the other the possibility of the correctness of the other's belief, and with difficulty refocused on the issue at hand. Or rather, at foot. He poked and prodded, scraped and squeezed. After intimating that the life guards at the beach had very little clue as to how to perform their jobs - insofar as it relates to treating sting ray attacks - the doctor prescribed a quick in-office treatment, antibiotics, antihistamines and ibuprofen. For one little toe.

After requesting that I return on Friday for a nurse-visit follow up - I'm sure to ascertain whether or not my toe has gone gangrenous and needs to be amputated - he discharged me. As I walked away, I glanced at the form he'd handed me peremptorily, before pushing me out the door.

Diagnosis: jellyfish sting!