The night my foot nearly exploded.

But first the gorgeous, colourful Leeanne, who I shot first thing this morning.
Who looks this good first thing?

Since I buggered my ankle on Friday my foot has been recovering slowly but steadily with the aid of many packets of frozen peas (I tried frozen chicken livers but it just didn't seem to work as well and I kept craving pate) a tube bandage, a curious blue tight neoprene cutaway sock thing and lifting my foot higher than my heart for most of the weekend. I put my big pants on too, for fear of scaring horses.
I hobbled into work yesterday in flip flops as there was no way my huge ankle-foot was going to fit into anything smaller than greater Manchester. Colleagues admired the girth of my ankle-foot and young posh girls used it for gymkhana practice on their ponies. I guess I hadn't really thought about my foot all day. Later at home I glanced down at my ankle-foot. Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! It had ballooned to the size of a Peugeot 205. It was fucking massive! It took up most of the floor and was casting a shadow across Edinburgh. My foot was so fat, the skin so tight and shiny and my toes so swollen it looked like a sow and her 5 suckling piglets. These little piggies went to the all-you-can-eat buffet. I felt like I had the Monty Python foot on the end of my leg. If it wasn't so weird it would have been funny. No, fuck it, it was hilarious. The blue neoprene cutaway sock thing now was so tight it was cutting off my circulation and my ankle-foot was a strange rubbery colour. If it hadn't been me, I'd have run away. Run away? I'd have needed a small trailer in which to put my ankle-foot. I managed to find frozen food and the ankle-foot shrunk slightly. Slightly. I had to go and find an extra duvet for it, no way was it gonna share. I'm worried it may take on a personality of it's own. Help me.