FP has broken his big toe. Poor soul.
He came home from his American Football training on Monday night hopping on one foot, agony written across his face.
"It's broken," I announced after studying his swollen, black and blue toe. FP insisted he was fine, that it was just bruised, nipped only a teensy wee bit, but certainly was not broken. Anything but broken, he'd claimed. But I could see from the odd way his toe was bent, and from the pain in his face that his bravery could not hide.
"It's definitely broken." I insisted.
And in the morning, the pain was too great, the toe too huge (throbbing at double it's normal size, I'll have you know) to ignore, so off he went to the hospital and guess what? Yes, FP was the proud owner of a broken toe and a shiny pair of crutches.
I did just manage to hold back on saying 'I told you so,' I'm sure you'll be glad to hear, as he is a poor wee soul, and he is missing his football. But before you go feeling sorry for him, spare a thought for me, who has to be running around after him; fetching books, retrieving his radio-controlled helicopter and helping him take a shower with his foot wrapped in a polythene bag.
I always said that sport is bad for the health, and I've finally been proved right...
Thursday, November 20, 2008