I finally took my wee toe to A&E. Here I sit, waiting to be seen, resisting the urge to “check in” on Facebook with a vague attention seeking status update like “oh don’t worry about me guys, I’m just at ACCIDENT AND EMERGENCY with my SUSPECTED BROKEN PINKIE TOE” which would hopefully – nay inevitably – prompt the sympathetic “what’s up hon?” “R U ok chick?” and my personal favourite the “I’ve PMd you hon”
I need to get this bloody toe sorted once and for all. It’s exactly a month ago today since I suffered the mother of all toe stubbings on the corner of a wooden bed base (I’m cringing afresh at the memory).
Yes I need to get it sorted. If I painted a face on it it would look like Vanessa Feltz and nobody wants THAT hanging around on the end of their foot. I arrived at A&E at 530 and was the only attention seeker – I mean patient – here. But, typical of my luck, a toddler was brought in screaming in pain with what I imagine is a broken limb. Boy do I feel like a fraud. Since then there’s been a procession of walking and wheelchair wounded whose eyes I’m avoiding. But I know they’re judging me. I know they’re thinking “why’s SHE here, dangling her sandal off her fugly foot like she’s got hooses tae let?”
I’m now in a cubicle with my sandals completely off ready to present the offending toe for inspection and willing it to swell up to the size of a baby’s head to make my visit seem worthwhile. I fancy that they’ll say “oh my dear how have you managed to soldier on with such an injury for so long? You should have come sooner! You must have quite the pain threshold” (in reality I have no pain threshold. This is the woman who pleaded to be smothered with a pillow during the early stages of labour. I’d’ve happily died). There are people in neighbouring cubicles whimpering and moaning but I hope I get seen first because I’m as quiet as a mouse and I remembered that at the scene of an accident you should always tend the quiet ones first.
To be continued. If I make it out alive.