Picture the scene: it is freezing in the Atlas Mountains. The wood burning stove is on, there are still a couple of Christmas Quality Street left, Squeaky the Cat and Rasputim are lying on my belly.
I get up to feed the fire when, from nowhere, disaster strikes. My left big toe catches in my right pyjama leg, propelling me knees first onto the concrete floor.
There I am crawling around swearing and howling, when suddenly I look down and see that my left big toe is a zig zag. I’ve totally dislocated it. The cats are eyeing me, and the toe, askance.
I am still in shock so, without hesitating or thinking, I grab the offending digit and push it across and back into place. There is a gruesome grind and a sickening click and hey presto! I have a sad but straight toe again.
Thank the Lord for adrenaline because ten minutes later there is no way I could have done it. And now just the thought of it and the memory of the grind and click makes me queasy.