So Cross....

This time honoured room at the Swedish Residence, which has been the scene of numerous health crises, both Keita's and mine, is once more the stage of another calamity.
I tend to have my head in the clouds, so I am not going to accuse the two young boys who ran into me this lunchtime with their Djakarta, the omnipresent scooter of Mali. I may well be at fault, having perhaps  stepped into the road without due attention...Anyway. there was an almighty smash that sent me flying and I landed on my back, spead-eagled on the road in front of Amandine's in Badalabougou.
Kind passers by pulled my dress down, supported me as I tried to stand up, and in due course I found enough presence of mind to wriggle my toes and try and find out if I had anything broken. It seemed that I did not, at least at first.
So a kind stranger gave me lift back  to Eva's, where I have spent the afternoon resting and indulging in self pity, while  the pain my foot has steadily increased. I can't stand on it. Dear Eva came to commiserate, to plunge my foot into a bucket of ice water and to comfort me with good white wine. Her new chef brought us great dinner in my room.
I am extremely cross. Now, what is THIS supposed to Mean? I do not have the time for this disaster.

Tomorrow my dear friend Karen will pick me up to take me to have the foot ex- rayed to see if it is broken.
I am totally intending to go on to Djenne and Timbuktu, even if it will have to be on crutches, goddammit... Just try and stop me!