No, not a lecture on the correct way to joint your ex-Bambi with laser like precision while only equipped with a blunt potato peeler and a novelty gherkin fork.
There's more than enough of that on t'net from smug people who are good at stuff.
Nope, I'm referring to the collection of bone splinters, red hot gravel, squishy bits and dog food that currently masquerades as my knee. Having been a bit of a liability for many years, ever since a young & foolish chap decided that jumping out of perfectly serviceable aircraft* was a good idea, it's decided that a knee's role in life no longer involves errm knee stuff.
You know, bending, kneeling, holding both ends of the leg together, that kind of thing.
Now I have been attempting to lose some of the solidified Guinness and Pies that have turned me into a Buddha clone over the last few years of parenthood.
In the course of this I have got the bike out again, and fallen off in a spectacular fashion to keep the spectators happy and the NHS busy (cracked ribs), gone charging (waddling) around local forest trails like a sexually frustrated Cape Buffalo (sprained ankle), and done my best to 'strengthen' the knee.
In my fevered imagination, I would be able to start jogging again, then running, and in no time I would be a lean, mean steely eyed six packed hero who would be beating off the adoring hordes of pert, taut teenage lovelies attracted by the 100% testosterone levels.......... sorry, sidetracked a little. Ahem.
OK, get fit, use the scant hours after the sprogs have got their heads down to get some honest exercise instead of slumping into a heap with a flagon of Chateau Special-Offer-At-Sainsburys and a book. Or a copy of Shooting Times if I wanted to rant a bit.
I was even seriously considering ambling down to my local TAC and seeing if they had any vacancies for old bald gits. After selling the concept to She Who Must Be Ignored as a form of aggressive camping.
So, for all of the above, knees were involved. Having been hobbling around like a hobbly thing for a couple of weeks as the ankle slowly healed (Tubigrip & Ibuprofen, accept no substitute) (actually I would have happily accepted Morphine or amputation at one stage), it's got better. Yippee. Foot points in the correct direction and everything.
And then the knee decided that mediation has failed, ACAS have given up and it's a wildcat 'end of knee duties' scenario.
This morning, the sun rose in the clear Autumn sky, the birdies were tweeting, and my BASTARD knee has swollen up to the size of a hippo's scrotum, so I'm limping/walking like an extra from Thriller. Ouch. Ouch Ouch Sodding Ouch. With extra Ouch.
Worse yet, I've got to hand my vulnerable carcass over to the NHS again. And they have daytime TV permanently on in the waiting rooms. A double portion of ouch and daytime TV. Can it get worse?
(OK, having my body vigorously rubbed with a cheesegrater while electrodes are clamped to my nipples would be worse, but that's pretty unlikely unless I exceed the speed limit in North Wales again)
So, once again I hear myself uttering the immortal words "Well, looks like that's another season well and truly buggered then".
*Yes I know there's no such thing as a perfectly serviceable aircraft, but it looked all exciting and macho. Until I went splat.
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3 comments:
You really should have known better!
You can always shoot sitting!
Indeed; sitting & shooting is good!
Whilst sat here I am trying to decide whether to enter next weeks NRA service rifle meeting with my own dodgy knees; if I enter will I make a complete prat of myself on the rundown?
It's only from 300 to 100 but it terrifies me to think that something might go "snap" on the way down, (knicker elastic accepted) and I will look like the 50 something I am but find difficult to accept.
All the signs are there, the smell of twiglets and my M&S pants don't seem to last a year now without the crotch rotting, still I have my sanity, which is a blessing given the number of rifles I own.
Is it noisy in here, or is it the little voices in my head telling me that Heather Mills McCartney is really a figure 11 target?
Henry
Hello Henry, arther you than me!
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