I’m sitting here with my feet up on cushions on the footstool, typing out this blog post and drinking lemonade. Sounds lovely, right?
Well it would be, if I hadn’t broken my toe on Sunday afternoon.
I was doing some tidying up around the house with Heidi (who has the patience of a saint and the nursing skills of a … well, a nurse), and decided to stick all the old rolls of wallpaper up in the attic.
Brilliant plan, except we don’t have a ladder, and the ceilings are rather high (because as you know, Victorian people were nine feet tall).
So I hopped up on a set of drawers, opened the loft, and started throwing wallpaper up there. All was going well till I jumped off the drawers.
Normally I’m quite sure-footed – an old mountain goat Heidi calls me when we’re trekking up the river behind our house … at least I think that’s why she calls me an old goat. Anyway, off I hop and landed wrong and scrunched my foot upwards and then everything’s going in slow motion and I see my life playing out before my eyes and I’m floating above myself and there’s Jesus and Buddha and all the other sky-pixies and space-hedgehogs and I’m suddenly on the floor screaming in pain.
Yes, screaming, a broken toe is licence to be a wuss.
Yesterday Heidi drove me to the hospital in Neath, where they x-rayed me and put a temporary cast on, then today we went to Morriston (that’s Morriston Hospital, not Morrisons supermarket), waited for an hour and a half and I’ve come home with a great big boot, rather like a massive ski boot.
Heides was worried about driving again after being drive-free for several months, but she did a great job and I think I’m going to have to keep an eye on my keys because she seems to rather like my car.
So for the next month I’m hobbling about on crutches and trying not to fall over. We have friends coming at the weekend and I’m no use at all. Sorry Sweetheart.
Here’s a snap of the x-ray showing the snap in my toe. It’s a huge break, so big in fact you might not see it right away, but it’s there, I can feel it!