Be careful what you wish for
November 15, 2007
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The more sharp-memoried among you may remember a post from about a month ago, complaining about a hurty foot and the bourgeoise diagnosis of tendonitis, and how I never had a broken bone as a child.
Never had a broken bone, until now.
Turns out the reason I’ve been hobbling around for the last six weeks is a broken metatarsal – oh yes, the bone of the zeitgeist, the bone that Beckham and Rooney broke. Shame I can’t stand either of them, but that’s by the by. A stress fracture, no less; usually caused by repetitive movements such as exercise, and often suffered by athletes.
Ahahahahahahahaha *wipes the tears of laughter from eyes, straightens sweater, flicks back hair*
For the last couple of weeks I’ve been enduring working-class guilt and using my company’s medical insurance to go private (which also allows me to go shopping in Blackheath, hooray!) – and also experiencing the quite considerable humiliation of having to call the insurers every goddamn time I need something new (“I’m going for an MRI. Is that OK by you? You’ll pay for it? That’s nice. Now I’m booking a follow-up appointment with the specialist. No chance you can just give me a carte blanche for this is there? No? OK, I’ll call you the next time I want to use the hospital toilet then…”).
Incidentally – I have no idea what an MRI is like on the NHS, but at Blackheath they give you headphones to block out the loud beeping, and they pipe in Radio 2…
Anyway. This afternoon I went back to pick up an incredibly sexy plastic boot that I have to wear for the next six weeks.
I feel a little bit like a cross between a Stormtrooper and a Cyberman. But, no crutches and no plaster cast so it’s only a good thing, right? Plus I’ll wow them at all the Christmas parties with my part-woman-part-machine look. And there’s a little handpump that blows up air cushions inside the boot that are quite fun to play with.
I am, like, sooperkewl.