I've been grounded. Two weeks on crutches. No dancing. No dog walking. No Pilates.
When you're someone who has but one gear (forward and top speed) to be told that you have to use crutches for two weeks and rest is not the best thing. After various prodding, rubbing and electric shocking (interesting) the lovely physiotherapist confirmed that my failed high jump over a cider filled cooler bag had ripped my calf muscle. Not too seriously, but just enough to be a total pain in the butt.
I had planned to go away with Miss R, the Mother and Mrs Jangles this coming weekend, but have had to cancel. There would have been a lot of beach time, and I am not too sure that crutches and sand is the best combination. I can just see myself face planting into the lapping waves as the crutches disappear into the sand. Mrs Jangles did offer wheelchair service, but unless it was a 4WD, I'm not too sure that would work either.
Also, I've seen her wheelchair pushing technique. I'm always amazed that my wonderful Nanny Joyce lived as long as she did with Mrs Jangles and the Mother pushing her around town in her wheelchair. I'm not surprised that she always fumbled for the seatbelt as soon as she got into it, and the helmet and shin pads were an added safety feature which she often insisted on, especially when there were hills or kerbs on the cards...
So, for the time being, there's no wheelchair, just shuffling around on the crutches which we found at the side of a wardrobe on Sunday night.
When I got up to leave the physio appointment yesterday, the therapist insisted on some lessons on 'crutch technique'. Standing up, she looked at me and asked whether they were actually my crutches as they were set up for a much taller patient. This is because the last person using them was 6'3" son number two. No wonder the handles were almost under my chin. Coupled with this, one was higher than the other. To be honest, I'm surprised I wasn't just walking round in circles instead of a forward direction.
So 'crutch technique' sussed, it was back home where I installed myself on the sofa with the remote control, a bag of peas and a bacon sandwich courtesy of son number two (who I am insisting on calling 'Sister' much to his joy). Talking of joy, I then reminded myself exactly why I never watch daytime TV. After half an hour of flicking, and watching snippets of judging, moving, dinner-dating and people with no teeth and lots of attitude, I gave up and watched a film.
But after my enforced sofa afternoon, it's back to work today. Master P and Mr W have been most supportive, and have renamed me 'Sicknote'.
I may find uses for those crutches which my physio could only dream of...