At about 3am on Friday night, I got up briefly in the middle of the night, and on the way back to bed I managed to stub my little toe painfully on a doorpost. At the time I thought nothing of it (well, apart from a brief ‘ow’) and went back to bed; in the morning I found it was still feeling a bit painful but still didn't think it was terribly significant. Certainly it didn't cause me any trouble slobbing around the house in slippers all day.

I didn't leave the house until about 7pm, when I put some shoes on and tried to walk into town for James's birthday dinner. I got about three minutes away from home before the pain had got so bad I had to turn round, hobble back home, and get in the car instead, which left me unable to drink and extremely cross.

I'm reminded very much of breaking my toe on a doorpost in Trinity in 1998; it was even the same toe. I don't think it's broken this time – it hurt significantly less and it wasn't actually impossible for me to put a pair of shoes on – but it's certainly pretty badly bruised and I'm not going to be walking anywhere much for a few days.

It's odd how a foot injury suddenly gives me a really strong desire to do lots of foot-related things; one moment I wanted nothing more than to sit around the house going zzzzz for two weeks, but injure one toe and suddenly my brain is convinced I'd planned a miniature walking holiday interspersed with dancing and badminton, just so that it can feel hard done by at not getting it.