Foot news, with even more evidence that nobody knows anything

I've only just realised that I never finished up the Saga Of The Foot (actually that's a lie; I realised ages ago but I've been variously busy or hungover for the last week-and-a-bit, neither of which are conducive to blogging). Anyway, I stopped wearing the sexy robo-boot at New Year and – lo and behold – there was no pain. This is fortunate, because if I'd had to continue wearing an open-toed contraption during the snow… well, I wouldn't have left the house. I went back to see the bone-scan obsessed consultant and, once again, there was nothing to see on the x-ray (this doesn't necessarily mean there was no fracture; stress fractures are notoriously awkward buggers). There was some Gallic-style shrugging and an acknowledgement that since I am now fine, there's not much more anyone can do.

I still maintain there was enough circumstantial evidence for it being a stress fracture. If it looks like a cow, sounds like a cow, behaves like a cow and you can milk it, it's highly likely to be a cow. This is the best metaphor I can do for you at the moment being, once again, hideously hungover. Sorry.

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