We’ve got history, my right foot and I. What you might call previous. GBH, ABH, assault with intent. It’s not pretty. Mostly it’s black, purple and a sort of greenish colour.
A few months ago, I was trying on some new clothes in the bedroom, and there was a discarded pair of jeans on the floor that I kept tripping over. My own stupid fault; my balance isn’t great so I should really have picked them up, but I didn’t. After one trip too many, I lost my temper and lashed out with my right foot, intending to kick them across the floor.
Except I didn’t hit the jeans. I managed to kick the back of my own left heel, full belt. Ow.
I’ll skip over the howling and swearing and sobbing like a girl, but suffice to say I think I probably broke my big toe. It went purple overnight, then black from below the nail to right around the ball of my foot. A couple of days later I had an appointment with my physio and I explained why I was limping.
“You’d have to be going some to break your toe like that,” she said, looking doubtful. I whipped off my sock. “Oh.”
It took a couple of weeks before it stopped hurting to walk on it, then another couple before it stopped hurting when I bent it. After shading through a whole kaleidoscope of pretty colours, it went back to its normal shade, but I still can’t bend it the same as my left foot and it’s a bit puffy.
Fast forward to tonight, making home-made pizza dough. I knocked a wooden rolling pin off the worktop. Onto my bare foot. My right foot. Guess where it hit, end on?
You’re waaaaay ahead of me, aren’t you?
Cue howling, swearing, sobbing like a girl etc. Sigh.
