Those of you have been following my tweets with baited breath throughout the day will know that,having hurt my foot last night, I woke up with it so sore I couldn't put weight on it nor bend it. I called in sick to work and work advised I go to the doctor to have it checked over. The doctor referred me to X-ray, and the x-ray department assured me it wasn't broken.
It happened as a culmination of an evening full of bizarre exasperating incidents.
I was waiting with friends, acquaintance and strangers on Floral Street outside the Stage Door of the Royal Opera House. Joseph Calleja had been out and had spent a lot of time surrounded by admiring fans. I don't care for pushing into pressing crowds and in the end I let him get away as he left in the opposite direction. Next out was John Tomlinson, who, again, spent quite some time surrounded by fans. When he finally emerged from the crowd, it was to walk along the road in front of where I was standing, so I walked over to him, took a photo, asked whether he would be appearing in future performances (he was, rightly, tight-lipped), and listened to some answers he was giving to someone else.
I moved away and realised that there were two women precariously close to me. They were unbelievably over-excited; one of them showing the other that she had got John Tomlinson's autograph. She was backing into me, all 4'6" of her, so I told her to watch out, and swerved to avoid her. She altered her path and continued backing into me. I swerved again, and managed to put my foot into a pothole, go over on both feets (I was wearing the slightest of heels) and fall to the ground, twisting as I went in order to protect my camera. At the point where my bum hit the ground, I exclaimed "Shit!" really rather loudly and very unladylike. But when you're rolling round in the gutter, you don't feel very ladylike anyway.
It was nice that people were sweet and concerned, but I didn't think I was that hurt. Still, it would have been decent if the moronic bint who caused it had apologised, or checked I was okay, rather than scurrying away. Cow. Grazed elbow, bang on the bum and generally shaken up. My foot hurt, but it didn't stop me half-walking, half-limping. I managed to carry on standing, and then walk into the Stage Door area and wait patiently to meet Plácido.
I didn't have any problems getting to the Tube and was mildly irritated at not getting a seat at Green Park. Indeed, it was only when the train was braking on the downhill run into Victoria and throwing my weight onto my left foot that it began to dawn on me it might be worse than I thought.
When I woke up, I realised that it wasn't feeling good. My instinct was to call into work, explain, say I was taking the day off to rest up. I called my manager's number, as per the rules, but I could only get his voicemail, and I feel that voicemail or email is insufficient for calling in sick, because it assumes that they are going to be in as planned. I ended up talking to my head of unit who was quietly insistent I went to my doctor. I dread going there, especially in the morning, and it took me ages to limp round there. There was a long wait just to register; I finally got to see the doctor who didn't even examine me. He referred me to X-ray, saying he's had three women this week who've been walking round with hairline fractures of feet, and that's not obvious by examination, so an X-ray would rule it out. He also gave me a 'fit note' signing me off for a week (not that I need it - I self certify for a week) but said go in, say on Monday, if I feel up to it.
I called my manager and explained. I thought I had to be honest. He's only recently become my manager and I don't think he knows the extent of my infatuation with Plácido. But my two previous managers do, as do several colleagues, and I've told my Head of Unit that I'm overdoing the nights out this week. I said that nothing, but nothing, will stop me going out tomorrow and I do believe that if you're fit enough to go out, you're fit enough to go to work (this doesn't apply if you're signed off long-term for a chronic condition). He agreed with me, but was happy with me saying that, depending on what the hospital says, I'll go in tomorrow but might be later than normal (going in the long way via two buses, to minimise walking, especially on stairs).
Fortunately, the GP referral was to X-Ray, so I didn't have to wait in A&E. I was in X-Ray for less than an hour, most of it waiting for a doctor to return from lunch. I was actually relieved there is no break, though it still aches like buggery.
