I’m wondering if I’m trapped in an episode of Fawlty Towers. Ever since landing in Rome, I’ve been feeling like hapless Manuel, who used to get smacked around by Basil Fawlty or dropped plates as the kitchen door of the hotel dining room swung into him. So far, I’ve had the fingernail drama, the accommodation drama and the ankle drama (which I told you about yesterday).

Well, the ankle drama has turned into a right royal circus. It’s over a week now since I went splat, over on my ankle in front of some Italians walking towards me. Major humiliation. The Leviogel the pharmacist prescribed – the one who learnt to speak English in under five minutes – was totally useless. Supposed to be a pain reliever but it just relieved me of Euro 7.00.

So colleagues at work told me to front up to the UN doctor downstairs in the building I work in. I obeyed and met up first of all with Kim, the Australian nurse. Woot! My name is Kim and I’m Australian. Naturally, we chatted away. She was a bit worried I’d broken some bones so she asked the doctor to examine my poor ankle and foot. The doctor is from New Zealand, where I live.

She announced that I’ve probably torn a ligament and wrapped up my ankle in a bandage. I was told to work from the apartment next day, so I did. The following morning, my French colleague picked me up and didn’t tell me that she had secret plans – to whisk me off to her French doctor. Mon dieu.

He’s a sports injury doctor and put my ankle through the wringer let me tell you. Swivelled it this way and that whilst asking does that hurt?. I could hardly answer through clenched teeth – ah, yeah French doctor it hurts. He promptly declared I had a hematoma, two torn ligaments and needed serious bandaging up like a mummy. As well as RICE – rest, ice, compression, elevation.

Over the weekend, I’d been putting ice on it, elevating it much as I could but rest? Sheesh, one is in Rome to work. And that means walking to the Metro each day. He also said I had to buy old granny type shoes to support the foot. When I asked him how long did he think it would take to heal, I was met with a typical French answer: it depends.

He spent ages massaging it and later on my foot was aching with a capital A. But by that night, it was a lot better. I suppose he was massaging the hematoma bit and encouraging the clotted blood to disperse. The amusing thing is the reaction at work as colleagues ask: have you done something to your foot? Ah, no I always walk around with a bandaged right foot!

It’s a major drama, dear reader, because I’m not exactly patient about this. I like to walk around Rome on the weekends and I like to walk around Testaccio where I’m renting and to the Metro. Mind you, I’m thanking my lucky stars. Nurse Kim told me about a Kenyan lady at work. She slipped on some wet cobblestones so badly she had to be airlifted back to Kenya for major surgery (apparently, she refused to be operated on in Italy, not sure why).

I also have another drama. The key drama. Remember my last apartment in Rome, the one with the friggin’ bloody door and the four locks? Well, this apartment has a key that can hardly get in the lock. When it does goes in, it gets stuck and I have to twist it this way and that. Every night, when I arrive back from work, I pray to the door gods that the door will open. And I spend a few minutes looking like a complete idiot trying to do something as simple as getting in a front door. What is it with Rome apartments and doors?!

The first round of bandaging.

Bandaging French doctor style. It actually seems to support my foot well.