Sunday
It might have been a combination of things.
I'm obviously building up for the County Medical Boot Triathlon as I scoot around the house listing at a perpetual angle of 45 degrees.
For information: it is possible to get a device to equalise the height distance between footwear and minimise pressure on one's back but I decided as my recovery was home-based that it was unnecessary. What I hadn't taken into account was the number of miles you can cover doing Domestic Chores.
Finally, at the end of the day, Dearest and I sat and watched the first episode of Friday Night Lights (Netflix again) as antidote to an almost unremitting diet of subtitles : Spin; Deutschland 24; Occupied -all great drama but unwavering focus required.
Dearest suddenly noticed foot looking overly plump.
Now I have to say that ever since this morning when Dearest assisted in putting on a light dressing and massaging in some E45 cream ( a bit like a grown up who has just discovered the joys of finger-painting for the first time and last time) he has adopted a bit of a jaunty air. Like he's just got his Nursing degree or something.
So short of calling for a Crash Team when he sees my plumptious pied he dives frantically into the freezer drawer feverishly searching for the petits pois.
I know, I know some people think I am posh and that tiny peas are further evidence of this, but I tell you now, they make a much better ice pack than those economy size cannonballs...
You do not however, need a 500 gram bag ( already opened - whooops!) dumped across wounded foot.. Accompanied by a a triumphant Nursey grin:
'Check me out!'
I draw a veil over the rest of the evening. You really don't need to hear the rest.
Trust me. You don't .
