I deliberately left something out of Wednesday’s story about curry. I figured that a post about such a delicious meal – even my worst such meal – might make some of you hanker after it. I therefore decided not to put you off your dinner.
There was another reason why I didn’t pay much attention to the identity of the restaurant that we ordered from in that post. At the time, we were renting a four bedroom bungalow. We were a little cramped for space, there being six adults, three children and a baby crammed in there. A particular problem was that there was only one proper bathroom, which meant that said room tended to be dripping with condensation from overuse and rather full of wet towels.
In addition, some bright spark had decided to install a stone floor – marble, I think, though I could be wrong – on top of the pre-existing floor. This meant that it was about 5mm higher than the hallway floor, something which wasn’t even obvious until you opened the door.
You can probably guess what happened next. That day, slightly tired and frazzled after a flight back from Queenstown and a taxi ride with a howling baby, I went to get something from the bathroom (I think I was going to remove my contact lenses). I stepped into the room with my right foot and slipped on the damp stone floor. My trailing left foot shot forward as I attempted to keep my balance and the end of it slammed into the raised edge of the floor.
I didn’t swear. The children were still awake and, besides, I don’t think I’ve ever really sworn in front of my parents*. I muttered a few choice phrases in my head, mostly concerning the parentage of the owners of that place, did whatever it was I had to do, and then went back to the kitchen to order my food.
A few minutes later, Mum pointed out that there was rather a lot of blood leaking through my sock. Closer inspection revealed a trail of bloody footprints leading from the bathroom to the kitchen, like a scene from a bad horror movie.
Upon removing my sock, we discovered a toe which was swollen, split open and sporting a shattered nail. Just what I wanted a couple of days before flying home with a child who would neither sleep nor sit still. Not to mention the fact that I was supposed to be doing a charity half marathon a couple of weeks later.
You can, therefore, understand why the name of the restaurant might have slipped my mind. But I now have a permanent reminder of that trip, as the toe didn’t heal properly and I am now left with a toenail which grows at a rather intriguing angle:
*Which is odd, as I’ve sworn at my in-laws. I know. Bite me.