I was lying at the physio’s. I injured my knee two weeks after the Bristol half marathon, back in September last year. It didn’t hurt at any time apart from when I was running, so it took me a while to get it sorted. But it was my new year’s resolution to get it fixed and run another half marathon before 2012 was out.
So there I am, lying on a bed at the physio’s. My legs are beautifully waxed, smooth and hair free. And covered in injuries.
On the right thigh there is the permanent bruise caused by me bashing into the corner of the bed in broad daylight on a weekly basis. The bed doesn’t move. There is no excuse for it.
Working down, there is a large bruise on my right foot, caused by my son swinging round and round on a large 1970s style swivel chair at his friend’s house. Until the chair and my son both fell onto my foot.
Working across, I have a slightly bloody nail on my left little toe. Bizarrely, this was caused by me catching my toe nail on the sheet in the middle of the night when I was fast asleep. I have a vague recollection of the pain. In the morning I discovered the bloody toe with half the nail ripped clean off.
Working upwards is perhaps the best injury of all – a large purple and red, raised bruise on my left thigh. It was caused, ironically, by me returning the ice to the freezer, which I had been putting on my leg as part of my physio exercise regime.
How can returning ice to the freezer cause such an ugly bruise? Simple really. The freezer is in the garage (of course, where else would it be? the kitchen, surely that would just be weird?). The garage is currently home to a half-constructed car. Said car has sticky-out bits at the front where the headlights are being fitted. I can see them perfectly well. I know they are there. But I still whack into them as hard as I possibly can.
The physio mentions the bruise, but I doesn’t ask how I got it. Good job, really. Because who’s going to believe the story about the ice and the half-constructed car? You couldn’t make it up. I would probably just have to say I ‘walked into a door’. But then she might think my husband hit me.
So, just for the record – my husband doesn’t beat me round the legs or forcibly remove my toe nails. There is a perfectly rational explanation for all of the injuries. Well, an explanation at any rate. I am clearly just a clumsy cow.