‘If you ask me,’ said the builder boyfriend, watching me hobble down the street as we set off for an early evening bite at the kebab shop, ‘you’re laminitic.
‘Think about it. You’ve got ludicrously small feet. They’re useless. Look at them. I’m surprised you can even balance on them. And you’ve gained a bit of weight, by your own admission. You’re like a thoroughbred horse. You’re carrying too much weight for your funny little shallow feet and you’ve gone lame. You’ve got laminitis. If you’re not careful, your pedal bones will rotate and then we’ll have to put you down. You need to get some weight off. Soaked hay for you. No more hard feed, after this kebab.’
All very amusing, I’m sure. But the fact remains, my feet hurt so badly, for reasons I can only guess, that I can barely walk. After the trip to the sportswear warehouse, I began wearing my improbably cheap designer trainers with every outfit in a bid to save my trotters, or should I say hooves.
But then I had to put a really nice outfit on for an occasion in town and I couldn’t bear it. I pushed my aching tootsies into a pair of wedges. And as I hobbled down the road to the Tube, balancing precariously on my crippled appendages, I was in so much pain I felt like The Little Mermaid. With every step I took, the pain became worse, until finally, exhausted by the agony, I fell over the side of my left shoe and felt something crunch.
‘Damn it!’ I cursed down the phone, for I was on the phone at the time, talking to the BB.‘I think I’ve broken one of the damn things now.
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