Diary – 13 November 2004

I broke my toe in Minneapolis. This is far from the glamorous image of leaving my heart in San Francisco and infinitely more painful. I stubbed it on a faux Chippendale dining-room table leg during a breakfast meeting at the hotel. It was a hot autumn morning and the traffic on the freeway was gently buzzing outside when my toe lightly brushed against the raw metal end-claw of the table leg which was sticking out menacingly, and my howl of pain pierced through the almost bucolic setting.