The devil you know

I didn't take too many pictures at Christmas this year - a few of the storm surge at Troon harbour, a couple in Dublin.

But when I was uploading them into Picasa it managed to recognise Fiona as a friar but not me as a demented doctor from Christine's Hogmanay party.

An omen of the future?

...Humpty Dumpty had a great fall...

Something is going wrong.
Nerve impulses travel at about 115 m/s (almost 260mph) for muscle. Pain receptors fire a lot slower - 0.6 m/s (not even 1.5 mph) though touch is about 75 m/s (nearly 170mph)
I can understand why the command "go left for that shot" would have my shoulders twist first and then my feet. Of course the gap between "first" and "then" is quite small due to the distance involve, a paltry 1.72.
So can anyone explain why the first I knew my feet hadn't got the message to move was the searing pain from my crumpled ankle? Had I been less annoyed about missing the shot I may have noticed the fact that I could feel the the sides of my trainer pressing into my calf but by then the pain would have kicked in.

At least its not broken. One of the disadvantages of sport so far from where you live is the hassle in getting the carcass back home. This time I was lucky. Since its my left foot and with stout boots I was able to drive home without too much discomfort. Pop it in gear and hope nothing gets in your way.
The real trouble was Friday. I could not move the thing at all. So off to hospital for xrays. The nurse told me as she wheeled me into the examination room that they were allowed to tease me if the bone wasn't at least chipped.
I got teased.

At least I had help at home. You'd think. All my subtle "coffee or tea" were met with "coffee, thanks". The one phrase that seemed absent was the "I'll get that. You rest that foot" Ciaran gave me grief for not getting out of his way quick enough and after I cooked dinner and did the dishes Fiona offered to press down the pedal on the bin since it looked like I winced the last time.