In my time, I’ve had housemaid’s knee, jogger’s nipple, nintendo thumb and mouse elbow.

And now I’ve got turf toe (a.k.a damage to the ligaments between the big toe and the metatarsal bone in the foot). It’s a bit like a bad sprain of the ball of the foot and big toe, if that’s possible, and it hurts a lot - tear-springingly painful to walk, stand, sit with feet down…Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow. I don’t recommend it in the slightest - if you’re going to get injured, I’d stick to something like, um, a papercut.

The odd thing is that I have no idea how I managed to do it at all. It’s not as if I spend any time running about on artificial playing surfaces or anything. Damn, there goes my place in the company netball team. And you think I’m kidding.

One of the problems with having injured my foot is that I’m under strict instructions not to walk anywhere on it. Now, short of hopping (impractical), or taking time off work (unthinkable), this leaves only the bus as a means to cover the 2/3 of a mile to and from my office. And we know how I feel about buses, don’t we? Let’s just say we don’t get on so well - anyone who’s been reading this site for a while may recall the various loonies, overheard conversations, assaults and bizarre experiences I’ve had on or waiting for London Buses. At some point I’ll put together a little collection of bus tales, when I get a chance.

Anyway, I bumped into the looney cornflake lady this morning, quite literally. She snuck up behind me - and I mean right behind me - and when I took a fraction of a step backwards, bumping ever-so-slightly into her ugly jumper sleeve, she started ranting at me about how there was a queue and some people were in it and I was indescribably rude and she was going to get me for assault and all sorts of stuff.

The encrusted skin and cornflakes fairly flew off her face as she ranted.

Once the rant was over, she elbowed past me, consequently destroying any vague pretension of queuing that the rest of us were seeking to uphold, and continued to cast dirty, murderous glances in my direction as we waited for the number 28 to arrive.

If I’d had the requisite number of feet in full working order, I’d have run a mile. Well, two thirds of one, at least.