After returning from Carlisle having seen Oldham dumped out of the FA Cup, my mind turned to big toe care.
They’re both a mess. A worry and an infection risk. Despite giving them salt baths daily, nothing seems to be improving. And getting your landlord to apply a tubular bandage isn’t a request you like to make. Fortunately he did a fine job.
Tomorrow sees another medical challenge for me. A CT scan seems to be easy. Into the polo mint. Adjust your breathing in line with instructions. Out you come and wait for the results a few weeks down the line.
MRI scans are a tad more challenging. Into the long tube. Trapped like a rat. Screeching noises. Time.
Given the choice, CT for me. So Oncobabe has chosen MRI. Worse still, given a choice of hospitals, the luxurious wide bodied MRI machine in Huddersfield has been ignored. Halifax may be nearer for me. But the MRI machine is a tight fitting evil.
At least I can eat before this one. Revels for breakfast?