A snapshot of my Friday night:
I am tired after two full days back at work. I crouch halfway up the stairs on my hands and knees, my right ankle in a cast. I am watching my cat eat her own vomit.
“Please, go right ahead,” I vocalise. “Don’t let me disturb you. Eat ALL of it.”
I spend five minutes crouched on the stairs and waiting, because if she eats all of it then I won’t have to crawl the rest of the way up there.
Having a broken ankle is tough work.