Carol’s Column

Josias the kraal manure spreader knows his toes

A toe, as you know, is part of the foot. In the dictionary, a toe is described as a digit, one of five attached to the human foot. As most people have two pedal extremities, the average human usually comes with 10 such digits. Many animals also possess toes, but right now, I am talking human toes. To be more specific, with my own toe, the fourth pinkie partner on my left foot.

It was this unfortunate digit – at the time naked - which impacted brutally with the edge of the kitchen door. This was not a painless event and I admit to screaming so loudly that a neighbour jumped over the wall brandishing his hockey stick for he surmised the aliens had come.

Naturally, as happens, my husband didn't react for he thought I was cackling to my good friend Betty on the phone.

The toe in question swelled alarmingly and shortly turned deep purple. A packet of frozen peas wrapped around the ever plumping appendage did little to alleviate the agony or stop the expansion.

All in vain. Josias the gardener who was spreading the kraal manure at the time, knows about such things. He looked at my toe and said: "Listen, it's probably broken. But there's nothing you can do for a broken toe. Just place some cotton wool in the middle to make a fulcrum and tape your third and fourth toes together."

A fulcrum? It means 'prop' or 'support' – I looked it up.

Actually, other than the fact that it was ridiculously sore, I wasn't too concerned because after all, it was just one toe and if it wasn't in working order, there were nine others to take the strain.

A broken toe and a closed shoe are incompatible. No matter, the days were sunny so I wore thonged sandals, the kind that let your toes hang loose.

The injured digit, which resembled a frankfurter – the dogs tried to eat it - made it difficult to walk so I developed a lopsided limp. Which in turn looked as if I'd been at the red wine. Which I had for medicinal reasons.

Things that you take for granted when fully toed, such as running to catch a handbag snatcher or standing on tiptoe to see if anyone's broken into your house, become impossible. In fact the only place where I was comfortable, was in the bath with my toe in float mode.

"You must come out," said my spouse. "You've been in the bath for three days. Your skin will shrink."

With reluctance, I climbed out. Good heavens, my feet were pleated.

The weather changed and it got chilly. I looked for an open-plan shoe but only Gianni Galoshi, of Milan, a basse (opposite of haute) couturier known for his innovative footwear had anything suitable and each shoe had to be custom made. Delivery took up to four months, the Shoetique of Parys said.

Three weeks after the accident, my toe was smaller. In fact, from a frankfurter, it has evolved into a giant bratwurst.

Eventually, I visited my doctor who insisted on X-rays.

"So, what's wrong?" I asked the radiologist. Doctors, like lawyers, speak their own language.

"There is a fracture involving the midshaft of the proximal phalanx of the fourth toe with lateral tilting of the distal fragment, probably with an element of impaction," he said.

"What does this mean?" I asked.

"It means you won't be dancing Swan Lake at the State Theatre during the next three months," he replied.

Which just goes to show, Josias the kraal manure spreader knows his toes.

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