Apologies for slow blogging this week. I have managed to break a metatarsal in my right foot. At present I am sitting with my leg propped on a bin at an agonising angle, wondering for just how long I can maintain my will to stay alive. The leg room under my desk is paltry enough at the best of times.
I have once before broken a bone. That was when I was 8 years old and I contrived to be knocked over by a Mini Metro. A crowd of onlookers assembled where I’d been thrown unto the footpath as I strenuously insisted that I was fine, would continue my passage home and then promptly collapsed in agony.
On that occasion I was playing football on my crutches within three days. On Monday night I had to stop twice attempting to navigate 300 yards to the restaurant at the top of the street. Two days later my arms feel like they might imminently drop off, I have blisters developing on my palms (insert your own joke here) and I’m seriously considering having my legs amputated at the knee and Oscar Pistorius’ blades attached, just to save me having to use these confounded crutches again. I’m not sure whether this is more a damning indictment of my upper body strength and fitness or a testament to the adaptability of children.