"Is that an elephant down your pyjamas or are you pleased to see me?"

Another day, another attempt to cure my dodgy ankle.

It turns out that ll the good work with gentle exercise and physiotherapy is being undone by the thing flopping to one side during long, painful nights in bed.

"Why not," says an anonymous benefactor, "Try a child's swimming armband? Works, you know."

So, a visit to a local tat shop and £1.50 later, I have a charming set of Disney swimming armbands, where the "This will not save you from drowning to death" warnings cover the entire packaging, 27 sheets of inserted paper and two-thirds of the armband themselves, with just enough room for a nice picture of Dumbo.

I shall draw a veil over the actual operation of the support itself, except to say, "Blow up my foot" is the least sexy thing you will ever see in bed.

Doorbell.

It is the unearthly hour of eleven in the morning, and I fall out of bed to find the postman attempting to deliver a package.

He looks at me in a funny way.

I sign his electronic wossname.

He looks at me in a funny way.

 "Is that an elephant down your pyjamas or are you pleased to see me?"

"No. No, it's an elephant."

"That's lucky then."