When I state this, it is derived from a genuine astonishment over a series of events that have occurred in the last 48 hours. I am blonde (admittedly it is more bleach, less genetics these days) but it appears this blonde-ness extends to me being an actual imbecile.
My Monday morning injection came and went without much fuss other than the kids proclaiming “that’s a really BIG needle Mummy and they are putting it in your BUM!!!!” Which led to hilarious fits of giggles from 3 small people at the mention/site of my soul being bared for all to see. The only word that gets a bigger reaction than bum/bottom is sex. This stems from a very lovely bakers that goes by the name of Sextons. Well I never. Who would have thought the name alone was enough to reduce my usually upright wanderers into a puddle of giggles in the queue to pay. And to compound this further, it was written on the paper bag of goodies we walked out with.
Much to my embarrassment they regaled the tale with such gusto to our play date companions that afternoon that they all giggled at the letter S let alone SEXtons.
So my achy bum cheek, 3 kids and I went about our day. The sun came out to play and the inevitable first BBQ of the season was summoned by the Hubs. What is it about men, they think that you can pull a BBQ out of your (sore in my case) arse with 5 minutes notice. Who do they think forages for the array of options requested? The Borrowers? We bought the entire contents of the butchers, some token veg for me to eat and a bakers worth of baps en route to collect the gas.
3 petrol stations later and we were successful in our gas replacement mission. As Hubs is “in charge” of the garden, my spidey health and safety senses were worried about the BBQs lack of use over the winter/Matthews questionable cleaning skills, so on the drive home stopped in for BBQ cleaner and a bucket load of scourers.
So far so good I hear you say.
Picture this: kids jumping out the car, excited to get the jet wash out (my cleaning following anything Matthew has “looked after” is extreme) and I went to open the boot….
Upon my lovely boot making its way up to the sky, I realised in somewhat slow motion the gas bottle was gathering speed and rolling towards freedom. Trying to stop the auto boot opening thingy, which is otherwise a very handy feature, I pushed down with all my might to try and avoid his ever so precious drive succumbing to a 15kg cylinder of butane smashing on to it.
I needn’t have worried about the drive, my foot did an excellent job of cushioning the fall (Imbecile moment circa 2 years ago – I managed to drop a 20kg plate on the same foot in the gym. Whilst tidying up no less, no shoes+heavy weight=broken foot in a moon boot for 4 months. Nice.)
My superbly well timed Sister-in-law arrived for juice and cousin time, but alas, I had ruined our best laid plans. Off to Minor Injuries we went. The wait was unreal, and the pain not much better. Having previously been prescribed some monster pain killers, I ate them and not so patiently waited as the waiting room emptied around us. Eventually I was called through, to a lovely Nurse who kept the X-ray dept open, by which point we were all fairly sure my now purple foot was pretty broken.
But alas, I must be made of stronger stuff and there were no breaks to see. Having been in the very same position 2 years earlier, I ventured back to hospital yesterday for a second opinion. Feet it would appear are very hard to successfully X-ray and having made the mistake of walking on a very broken foot last time, I didn’t want to take the chance in case anything had been missed on round one. Round two gratefully has said the same, so whilst very bruised, and bloody painful, all that could be seen on the X-ray were the healed fractures from the last time I had been a complete and utter muppet.
It’s so frustrating to hurt yourself – there’s no one else to blame. Nothing that can explain away the situation or make you feel less stupid. I have struggled in the past (most notably when I bust my foot the first time) and that struggle continues given my little toe is currently so blue I am wondering if it still has a pulse.
The bruising will come out, and when it does I’m sure it will be a vivid purple (Imogen will be happy, its her favourite colour). But like the pain, bruises fade and heal, here’s hoping my dented pride will eventually do the same.
I wouldn’t recommend a gas BBQ, coal is far safer, it doesn’t roll with such enthusiasm.
These things really do only ever happen to me, but as @mrsspencer1 noted, at least its given me ammunition for a blog post…..I’m sure there are much less painful ways to garner inspiration though.