Like a Wounded Duck

Dear faithful reader(s): I have another injury.

From the state of my recent blog postings, you would think I need to be secured in bubble wrap to protect me from myself. And you would probably be right.

This injury involves the soft, helpless underside of my left foot. And because there are no obvious shattered bones sticking out, the doctor diagnosed me with the ambiguously named "soft tissue damage". Which could really mean anything from a bruise to a torn ligament.

I wish I could be as general at my job and still get paid for it.

"Sir, it appears to me that you may or may not need to disclose that information, that may or may not be material in nature. Oh, and you may or may not be in default"

Actually, that's pretty on the mark.

Anyway, back to the injury.

As part in parcel with my soft tissue diagnosis, I was also given crutches and painkillers.

The painkillers are more fun.

The crutches are a lesson in faulty limb co-ordination and awkward flailing. And that's just trying to get down a hallway.

If you add doors and other elements (like tea) into the equation, you're met with embarrassment of the most epic proportions. And tea-stained clothing.

But, my foot is healing. But don't tell Adam. Because I'm rather enjoying bossing him around and making him fetch me things.

Here is how our conversation goes:

Me: Adam!
Him: ..yes?
Me: I need a snack!
Him: But you just ate dinner.
Me: I NEED A SNACK TO HELP ME HEAL
Him:...
Me: *puts on sad eyes and points to foot*
Him:...
Me: *puts on even sadder eyes*
Him: Sigh. Fine. What do you want?
Me: Nothing - I was just testing you. Congrats! You passed. If this had not been a drill, I would be eating pretzels right now.

All I need is a little bell that I can ring. To get Adam's attention if he's hiding out in the basement.