The Verdict

Two or three weeks, the doctor told me! That was bad enough in my mind but the nice doctor (who introduced himself by bursting into the examination room booming "NOW! What have you been doing to yourself, eh?!") at the Trauma Unit tells me I'm to wait at least six weeks. Six weeks! Don't they realise I have stuff to be doing? Tutt. Looks like the next month or so is going to be a test. Not sure how much cooking I'll be doing as a) the pain means I'm struggling to be hungry (yes, you read rightly - this must be serious) and b) I can't really carry things when I'm on crutches which makes cooking rather difficult. Time will tell!

Mashed!

Lesson one in Successful Bicycle Riding: Don't fall off. Amateur mistake on my part then, it seems, as I've managed to topple off my bike and force a pretty little fracture into my fifth metatarsal (easier to say than spell!). "Well, I can see from the x-ray that it's broken," states the doctor helpfully, having made me endure five or so minutes of painful poking and prodding and "Does this hurt?". Raving sadist. "It'll take two or three weeks to heal," he tells me.


A broken foot and a few bruises aside, I'm fine thankfully. Kudos to my long suffering housemate who applied peas, supplied sympathy and kindly ran me to A&E. So here I am, popped in a temporary cast and told to show my face at the Trauma Unit (not a promising name if ever I saw one) first thing tomorrow.

Calorie Confusion

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