Hobble and Wince

My foot caught an infection a couple of days ago on returning from Bath. I took my shoes off on the train and when I alighted I couldn’t walk.   At times the pain is so excruciating I could howl.  It’s swollen and  I can’t get my shoes on so last night I read on stage in my Birkenstocks.    The morning is  most painful because when my foot descends from the bed  the blood rushes down and my it feels like it’s on fire while being stabbed by  hot nails.

It’s 7.30am and two hundred yards from Galway airport sheep are grazing in the field. The sun is scorching the sky. It’s a beautiful sunrise.  I am supposed to go to the southbank the moment I arrive in the UK at 11.30am but I am in way too much pain to do anything but go home.    I hobble and wince, hobble and wince.

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