What a year I'm having. Covid, fatherhood, injury. For every moment of delight and joy there's a moment of illness and pain. Just as I start to enjoy the good weather my body lets me down and I'm hobbling. Sans cycling, sans walking, sans comfort, as the Bard might say.
So, it went down like this -
We are, of course, rapidly approaching the Easter holidays. From Friday evening, all our sites will be rammed to the gills with happy holidayers, and despite our best efforts and careful planning we are not exactly prepared. On Monday, I compiled a lengthy list of 'urgent' tasks that needed completing post-haste, and started wandering around (in a management sty-lee) to hurry our staff along in an attempt to get them finished before the weekend. At some point - fool that I am and not thinking through my actions - I decided to take a short cut across our recently-mowed, even-more-recently-watered putting green. Without any warning or chance for me to stop what was happening, my left foot suddenly slid forwards, my right foot stayed where it was, my knee buckled sideways in a direction it shouldn't go and I ended up laying there in the wet grass feeling sore and stupid, with a rapidly soddening shirt. One of the gardeners had to help me onto my feet, at which point I realised that putting any weight on my right foot sent sharp pains rocketing through my knee joint.
So now I have a rather unsexy support bandage around it, a leaflet on RICE and pain management, and advice ringing in my ears about 'resting it properly for 2 weeks or risking the sprain becoming problematic.'
If I do as I am told, informed the former Hitler Youth Leader masquerading as a medic at the Minor Injuries Unit, I should recover without the need for physio and be able to resume all activities in 6 - 8 weeks. That makes me feel so much better as I sit here with my leg up on an office chair, wishing it wasn't 2 hours until I'm allowed to take more ibuprofen....
RC 30-3-22
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