Poor old Wayne Rooney. He had to wait until the next morning to find out if his foot was as bad as all the papers predicted. The waiting must have been as agonising as the injury itself. Not me, though. The diva in me broke out and I demanded a scan on the spot. As it turned out, it was already arranged nearby and they were waiting for me. Tantrum abated, I threw on my fur coat, grabbed my clutch bag and wafted up the road to the hospital.