‘Was that your ankle I just heard snap?’
The sturdy, thick thighed, brown haired woman with children hanging off her every appendage is standing over me and considering me inquisitively.
In answer to her question, I am writhing about in pain and gulping down vomit while also inadvertently head butting a giant ladybird.
As much as I would love to enter in to a polite conversation about the noise my ankle just made, I am unable to, due to the fact I think I may actually be dying.
The only noise I am able to make is bursting from my mouth, like something soggy escaping from a compressed nappy, without my prior permission.
I sound like I may be about to birth a donkey.
Addison, now knelt beside me, having climbed back up the giant snake slide in the midst of all the drama, is trying to rub my back in a way that lets me know he is both caring and mature.
The thing is though, what with him being only two and all, his caring rubbing translates more as him just basically beating the crap out of me with a smile on his face.
As I bite down on my bottom lip and press my face in to the distinctly feet smelling, sticky red mat, writhing around in agony, desperately trying not to lose control of my bladder (which always seems to want to evacuate its contents at the first sign of any pain) Addison thankfully decides to give up on pummeling me to death in my hour of need, but then for some unknown godly reason decides that eating me will be much more supportive.
The burly woman is still stood over me, repeating her question, over and over again, while my son licks my face, I am seriously close to pooping my pants and a pain unlike I have ever felt, makes its way up my right leg.
‘Are you ok?’ she asks throwing her children off her thick body parts like a professional shot putter, and I see them fly, hurtling through the air, in all different directions, big smiles on their faces ‘I am pretty sure it is just a sprain, I can’t see any swelling.’
I am dangerously close to passing out, my son is now maneuvering his tongue up my nostril, and although I am all for appropriate optimism in the face of disastrous drama, I am pretty sure my foot is no longer attached to my leg and if she calls it ‘just a sprain’ again I will have to projectile vomit all over her in revenge.
I turn on my back and look at her hard, imploring through the method of telekinesis (in that if i could, i would use my eyes to throw something at her) for her to shut the hell up.
Addison then begins to ‘massage my face’ in concern, while sitting on my chest.
(He is basically just bitch slapping me by this point.)
‘For the love of god, I have been shot!! I have been shot in the ankle and now my foot is falling off! Oh my god, I have been shot! Someone call the paramedics and the police.’
Is what I wanted to shout,
What actually came out was;
‘umf for fecks sake umf Addy get off me, I think I am dying, umf ergh its not a sprain, I want to poo, umf I think I need a dr, umf, ergh…’
And then I stupidly looked down and saw my foot was very definitely dislocated, which did not help settle my stomach one tiny bit.
My foot was completely ignoring the instructions to jump back on my ankle I was sending it, preferring instead to take advantage of it’s freedom and perform for all the world to see, its own interpretation of Michael Flatleys lord of the dance, without the rest of my body being involved at all.
Five hours later, after being carried down the shiny green, undulating snake slide by the woman who was convinced it was just a sprain, and who i was convinced by this point was actually a man in drag, and clattering in to my local A and E department all hair and moaning, excitedly seeing my chance to finally, finally re-experience the joys of Gas and Air*, I have been gifted with a shiny half cast, an x-ray confirming a hairline fracture, an extremely clean right nostril and a packet of codeine phosphate.
Damn giant ladybird.
Damn play center.
Damn Michael Flatley, I can’t look at my foot now without seeing a row of healthy Irish dancers, dressed in green, all jumping and fumbling in unison, it’s like my foot had dreams of another life it never got to live and now I am disappointed for it.
My foot is depressed.
The Irish one reckons my foot had the potential to make it to broadway.
I love codeine phosphate too by the way.
But not as much as I love Gas and Air. So it is a shame really that I hadn’t actually been shot.
*They wouldn’t give me gas and air because APPARANTELY it is on my medical record that I ask for it too often and they think maybe I have a problem. I told him ‘I DO HAVE A PROBLEM, my problem is YOU WON’T GIVE ME ANY GAS AND AIR and I deserve some! The people deserve some! My foot deserves some. I didn’t get any. Bunch of bastards.
I’d also like take this moment to say thanks to the woman with incredible thighs. Your thighs saved my life. But it wasn’t a sprain ok? So stop saying it was a sprain. Cos its not and it never was. Thanks.