You know what’s coming, don’t you? Something like this, perhaps? Ah, but this one’s even better.
Last night. It’s late, it’s dark, I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine. Not enough to be falling down unprompted, but certainly enough to get me out of bed needing the loo. I’m heading for the bathroom, which requires negotiating my way round the bottom of the bed, and . . .
It’s a solid oak bedstead, and my tootsies are mere flesh and bone. I woke up my husband with the swearing, but managed to make it to the bathroom and back without further mishap.
Today, well, the picture speaks for itself. That’s starting to look like a busted toe to me – or at least a hyper-extended one. My mobile has failed to capture the delicate nuances of the bruising coming out, which extends below the toe into my foot, but suffice to say I can’t scrunch my toes in the carpet just now, and both stairs and shoes are somewhat challenging.
I have to admit, it’s not quite as spectacular as the time I fell into the pond and did this (right) but my rap sheet now has a further charge of aggravated assault occasioning actual bodily harm on it.
Seriously, I should not be left unattended. This is getting embarrassing.