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. After X-raying at the local hospital, the doctor announced, ‘Yup, it’s a severe fracture of the metatarsal, involving the metatarsophalangeal joint.’ ‘What can I do?’ I wailed. ‘There’s nothing you can do with a broken toe except wait. Only time heals toes.’

Hobbling sandal-clad back to NY and several meetings, I soon realised, as autumn cast its gentle glow, that I could not cram my foot into any of my stilettos, flats, boots or even sneakers, since my right foot had swollen to a size bigger than the other. Being somewhat of an Imelda Marcos, I locked myself in my closet for a marathon shoe-fitting session which ended up making me feel like one of Cinderella’s ugly sisters as I tried cramming into pair after endless pair, so off I went to Saks and Bloomies for a restock and refit. After I had spent two weeks in considerable pain every time I put any weight on my foot, my husband insisted on whisking me off to the Number One foot-man in New York, Dr Rock Positano. Anyone with a name like that is bound to rise high in his field and Dr Rock was no disappointment. After examining the toe he told me the doctor in Minneapolis was wrong and should have insisted I keep my foot iced twice a day and bandaged all the time — so much for Middle-American medical advice.