I stood on a bra strap today. Well, more specifically, the buckle part that keeps the straps tight.

It’s gone right up to the top of my list of most painful things in the world to stand on.

I nearly cried.

They were in front of the washing machine, ready to be the next things washed. They hadn’t yet been poked into their various mesh bags that we use for washing things of this nature. I still had that to do. I was just waiting for the spin cycle on the previous load to finish and was just casually walking through the kitchen.

I could have sworn the thing went right into my foot. I expected I would have to pull it out and there would be blood all over it, and maybe bits of flesh and I would somehow have to explain to Carole what had happened and why we needed a blood Stain Devil all of a sudden while simultaneously fighting off Peppa who, excited by the smell of blood, would be trying to eat me.

There were a lot of choice words being said, I can tell you.

And then I looked at the bottom of my foot and there is nothing there. No sign, at all, of an injury which caused horrific pain. I can’t believe it. I’m genuinely gutted. I thought it would be a cool scar to show off to someone during a scar-off. “You think that’s bad… look at this – bra buckle, right through my foot.”

But no. Nothing.

It’s like it never happened.

But it did. I know it did. I felt the pain, and the hot sting of tears threatening to come out because of that self same pain. And then tears when I realised there was no visible sign of any injury. Robbing me of the chance to be lying on the couch when Carole came home, my foot wrapped in makeshift kitchen roll bandages, blood dripping off my heel. And then when she’d come towards me to ask what was wrong I could say… “You! You did this to me! You!” and other dramatic phrases.

But none of that.

I am genuinely disappointed.

If it didn’t hurt so much I’d do it again to see if I could get a better result…