I thought I was tough, getting through childbirth with my bits still pretty much intact.
But, turns out I've been walking round with a bit of broken bone in my foot. And
I don't even remember doing it.
I fell over my foot on my walk home from work.
I fell over my foot on my walk home from work.
Who
does that without a drink?
They
weren’t high shoes- more Tom Cruise's elevators than Naomi Campbell's nine-inchers.
There's something so toe-curlingly embarrassing about stacking it in public.
There's something so toe-curlingly embarrassing about stacking it in public.
I’d go so far as to say, falling face down in
a car park, with only a couple of fellas in a white van pointing at you for
sympathy, has to be up there as one of life’s absolute clangers.
And there’s only one outcome.
Have a quick cry.
A quick, ugly-faced, cry.
Then pick
yourself up, and hobble to the bus stop.
The
next morning, as I attempted to get up, I couldn’t put any weight on my right
foot at all.
I sat, wincing
through the pain, at breakfast, as Nancy attempted to climb onto my leg to play
‘horsey, horsey.’
I could
only hop to move.
Now, hopping
isn’t the easiest way to get about at the best of times.
But
hopping, carrying a toddler, is like the parent version of Total Wipe Out.
Ben
took me to A and E after dropping Nancy off at the childminders.
The
closest we could get to the door was miles away, so, after attempted to hop
for about 10 metres, I asked Ben to carry me.
I had a
vision of An Officer and A Gentleman.
The reality
- being picked up by my midriff; like a Scottish log thrower, and deposited at
reception.
And after
a prod from the nurse. An x-ray. Another prod. And a look at the x-rays. It turns
out a bit of bone had already chipped some time ago.
Like,
years ago.
There was
literally a bit of bone, disconnected, floating about it my foot.
Wowzers.
Totally grim and completely fascinating at the same time.
So, turns out hopping about with a toddler is tricky.
But, attempting
to carry a toddler with crutches, is near on impossible.
You also
can’t push a pram with crutches. Which means you can’t leave the house.
To go
to the shops. To the park. To see friends.
And there’s
only so much Peppa Pig you can watch before you’re silently willing Mummy Pig
to tell Daddy Pig to do a bit more round the house.
So. I’m
hardcore. Possibly.
But
good at playing creatively when a bit of me is out of action? Possibly not.
Please
don’t let me ever break anything.
Or it’s going to be Boresville central in this
flat.
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