“Hmmm,” she says, holding it at arm’s length.
My sister, RonnieB, looks on, impressed.
“The antibiotics are obviously starting to work,” reports the LTLP. “The swelling’s gone down quite a bit. It’s still horrifically manky between these two toes, however. Would you like me to put on some more cream?”
I shake my head, experienced enough to know the right answer.
“I can’t believe how sympathetic you’re being,” gushes my sister. “Honestly, I wouldn’t go near it if this had happened to him.” She jerks her head contemptuously towards my brother-in-law, who quails in the corner. “You’re obviously a very caring person.”
“It’s only because there’s somebody else here,” I interject. “You wait – as soon as you leave it’ll be…” I tail off, following a sharp pain in my toe.
“Well just don’t expect that from me,” my sister continues to her husband. It is a shame how some men can get so hen-pecked.
“Right, you bastard,” snarls the LTLP, 0.0000001 seconds after my family have left to drive home. “I want a glass of wine, and I’m going to sit on this sofa and watch you load the dishwasher.”
“But I’ve got a bad foot!!!” I counter.
“And make sure it’s a cold one,” she adds.
I limp off to the fridge and get to work on the dishwasher. When it’s fully loaded, I have to wipe the surfaces and put the rest of the dinner stuff away.
“I think it’s starting to hurt once more,” I complain, as I get her a second glass of wine. But she is not listening; she is too busy looking up the Dignitas clinic on the laptop. It is time for some more antibiotics and some mank-cream.