We Can Rebuild Him, But Why Bother?

My life has become a regular comedy of errors. Yesterday while playing football in a field full of cowshite and pockmarks i put my foot into one of the latter and went to ground with a resounding crack from my right ankle. Unable to walk, or indeed form a clear sentence without lapsing into growls and curses, it was advised that I visit casualty in my local hospital and get it x-rayed.

A mere five hours later I emerged hobbling on crutches and pepped up on goofballs. Or painkillers. I can’t remember. The x-rays failed to show anything conclusive (Do they ever? Is it just me or do X-rays seem to be something that the hospitals made up to keep you using the waiting-room vending machines longer.) No bone damage. The delightful cracking noise my foot made may have been caused by a tendon popping out. Or popping in. Or just popping. I’m on crutches for a few days. Keep weight off it. Come back if it still hurts, etc.

Working on crutches is fun-fun-fun. “Another jibe about me being a cripple? Yes please!” I just went for lunch and it nearly killed me. I decided I could manage the “walk” to one of my favourite local eateries. Walking with crutches is like carrying a heavy-ish box. It’s so easy for the first twenty metres, you decide that doing it for four hundred couldn’t be that hard. Ten minutes later you are left wheezing and sweating, with trembling arms and blisters on your good foot. Maybe I just need more experience. Or some arm muscles. It’s enough to make you want to drop the damn things by the side of the road. I’m fairly sure I could stagger along without them. My foot doesn’t even hurt that much anymore (unless I rotate it more than fifteen degrees anticlockwise, in which case someone is inserting hot daggers into my leg.) Unfortunately I’m one of those schmucks who does what the doctor tells them to. It’s a curse.

On the plus side, I’ve never had so many people patronisingly apologise for getting in my way before in my life.