On not unravelling.....

Last night's post was short and sweet. 

I was absolutely hammered. No, not from celebrating straight toes. Though, truth to tell, I did have a large glass of The Cover Drive Jim Barry, a nifty little 2013 Cabernet Sauvignon all the way from Coonawarra, darlings..

Look, I'm including this detail because I am sure that some of my readers are quietly suffering from bunion-boredom by now. I am also blatantly making a play for  Australian readership, as seemingly I have two new Aussi readers. 

No, I was absolutely exhausted by the sheer exertion of the day.

I did not experience the heady charge of fresh air infused by diesel and sundry carbon emissions, as I stepped outside after my two week confinement and into the car. 

I couldn't say I was holding it all in, as the surgeon unwrapped the thick wadding around my foot. (How could I possibly have worried so much about Rising Damp? No Turkey has ever been trussed so keenly.) 

I was delighted to see the wounds looked tidy,  with tasteful colour embroidery in contrast to my alabastine foot, and importantly, not a trace of swelling. None that I could see. 

That gave me Brownie points with the surgeon as he could see I'd been a 'good girl' (when all my life I've yearned to be blonde and bad...). So all those hours acting as a telephone mast have evidently paid dividends. 

Stitches were removed - not too bad. I found that distraction helped: I focused on listening out for sound of cracking skull as Dearest hit the deck. But no, thankfully, everyone remained alert, fully conscious and lunch stayed put. Result.

A very neat bandage which Has To Be Kept Dry for four days, and then I can take a shower.

Toe exercises have been given and I'm steeling myself to do the first set which involves pressing the big toe down for fifteen seconds and then pressing it in an equally unnatural angle upwards. Hymns and Arias, Land of my Fathers that bloody hurts and you're meant to do that to yourself?

Last night when I returned to the marital bed, I was groaning gently, as the medical manoeuvrings of the day were taking their toll; eechy-ouchy type of pincy-wincy pain ( if you need a specific description). In a burst of heroic altruism I reached for my medical boot :

'I can't subject you to this !' I announced,

'I've come back too soon...'

'Get back into bed, ' said Dearest,

'I'll be fine'. (Yes, that's right.)

And sure enough, the comforting resonance of my dearest Snore Lord lulled me into a dreamless sleep.