Well, it had to happen.
Everything has been going swimmingly. The scene absolutely primed for a disaster. Been enjoying myself too much, patently.
Hubris.
It always get you in the end.
I decided to shower first thing this morning. I enveloped my leg as usual.
But when I was in the shower, about 10 seconds in, I glanced down to see that I had omitted to turn over the rubber valve at the top. I quickly did so thinking that the gripping fixture was such a snug fit round my ample thigh that I had been in time. Mistake. That trickle of coldness round the covered heel, I put aside as imagination.
No, no, no, my precious to-be-kept-dry crepe bandage was decidedly damp.
Letting forth a loud Anglo Saxon expletive, I summonsed Dearest who seemed unmoved by the perceived seriousness of the situation.
'It's not that damp.'
'Your stitches are on the topside and are probably dry.'
'Look, it bled when you first came home and blood's wet. Your foot's still attached.' (Warm reassuring tone.)
After the last blatantly ridiculous attempt to calm my rising hysteria, I demanded a hairdryer.
Dearest went off in search.
'Where?'
'Spare bedroom.'
'Which one is the spare bedroom?'
Have you lost the will to live? I did, while I waited for my husband to identify which bedroom I meant in our
28 bedroom mansion with room for a pony in the back. Did I fail to mention this?
I dry off the crepe bandage with hairdryer, by now hyper-worrying that I will get Japanese foot-rot and decide that I will spend the day waiving it in the air to expel excess moisture.
'Well, you've not much else to do,' I can hear you say.
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