This news just in: it’s no fun being unable to walk. At the time of dictating this column, I still don’t know what’s wrong with my foot.
Woke up one morning in agony with it. Worst thing was I didn’t know what was causing it, and still don’t.
Of course, I have made several appointments with Dr Google which, as usual, have left me wondering if I should consider writing my will and atoning for my sins.
I had to turn to chicken nuggets
In the meantime, I couldn’t walk on my gammy paw, and had no food in the house beyond some ancient items in the freezer.
I ended up having my first ever chicken nuggets. Goodness me, they were awful.
Consider the seriousness of my situation, stuck out in the sticks and no home deliveries. Soon, I’d have to start eating the birds’ suet mix.
The condition seemed to clear up a couple of days later, but then the usual happened: just when I thought it gone, next morning it was back worse than ever.
This is a malign universe.
Nothing within reach
Not only was I unable to get to the Big Village supermarket, I couldn’t get either to the gym and sauna, which I visit twice a week, to no visible purpose or physical improvement.
Recently, I’d been joking with the gals at the leisure centre about how I was such a creature of routine, so much so that, on a very sunny day recently, I was the only one booked in.
The poor staff had desperately tried phoning to ask me to come in earlier so that, with no other bookings, they could shut up shop early and enjoy the sun.
Of course my phone was off
But, as usual, I hadn’t had my portable telephone switched on, as nobody ever phones me on it, apart from my mate twice a week to talk about football, and he’d just phoned the previous day.
Told of the situation when I arrived at the gym, I instructed the staff to go home, since there was no point in keeping the joint open just for me, never mind funding the leccy bill to keep the sauna running.
As for me, fitness-wise, I’m running to stand still. I fear if I miss a day, everything will flop out and I’ll acquire three more chins. So I really need to get this foot sorted.
So why don’t you phone the doctor?
You say: “Why don’t you phone the doctor, Roberto? They ken aboot medicine an’ that.” Unhand me, madam! A man in my position cannot be seen going to the doctor every five minutes.
But, hands up, I have been a lot recently, what with one thing and also another. I always leave it for ages before ringing up.
Always feel such a nuisance. “Really sorry to bother you but I can’t help it. I’m ill.”
Remember, put your feet first
At the time of wittering, I’m still holding out, hoping this thing will go away, though I’d like to know what it is. I might have to bite the bullet and give the doc a ring.
In the meantime, my apologies for bringing you exclusive news about these travails. I hope I haven’t made any of you cry or vomit.
At least, perhaps, you now value your feet. For me, it’s a case of best – or only – foot forward.
