The good thing about being back home is that everything seems normal, comfortable and familiar. The police were here for about six hours on Wednesday. They turned up in the middle of the afternoon with two vans and a car, and spent the rest of the day in our block, searching the flat of one of our neighbours. As the sun went down, numerous officers were trudging back and forth to their vehicles with sealed bags of evidence, including computer equipment and what looked like a large kitchen bin. We couldn't have asked for a more fitting welcome home.

But apart from helping the police with their enquiries, the main reason we returned to Brighton was because I had a hospital appointment to attend. I might be on annual leave all week, but naturally I can't stay away from the place, so having already got my money's worth out of the urology department, the rheumatology department, and Facebook's favourite gynaecologist, I broadened my medical horizons this week by seeing a podiatrist.

It's four weeks since my doctor diagnosed plantar fasciitis, and despite stretching both my tendons and the bounds of credibility with the list of exercises she gave me, there hasn't been any significant improvement. I might be single-handedly saving the British ibuprofen industry from the effects of the credit crunch, but that aside, the treatments I've tried have done very little good.

So I spent the eve of the Royal Wedding explaining all of this to my footman, and having looked into my sole and pressed the flesh a bit, he declared that I need a steroid injection. I'm not well-heeled enough to have it done privately, and the NHS needs an injection of cash before they can spike me with cortisone, so there's a bit of a waiting list and I don't have a date yet, but he said it shouldn't be long. In the meantime, it gave him the opportunity to explain the possible side-effects.

Apparently initial pain, subsequent numbness and the inability to drive for a few hours are a certainty, so I'll know how my own patients feel for a change. But if I end up in hospital with a bone infection I can consider myself unlucky, and a complete tendon rupture would make me one in 23,000. I should, however, prepare myself for facial flushing which could last for a couple of days. So I might end up red-faced and hopping mad, but if it cures me, I don't care.