Build me up, buttercup...

Cast your mind back to when I was incarcerated in the Wobble Box having thrown myself down a bona fide mountain in Wales.  Lying down in the caravan with a makeshift ice-pack on my knee (which had swollen to almost double its normal size and was at risk of blocking the light to the sitting area) I presumed that the old arthritis (curse you, old age) was playing up again.  Having hobbled around for a days, I finally did as the husband told me (a rare occurrence as I always know best) and made an appointment at the local gym where they had a super-duper physio.

I was early, I always am, and I was told to sit and wait.  Fortuitously, the sofa I chose had a fabulous view of the weights section of the gym, and a most pleasant ten minutes was spent watching various chaps throwing their weights around.  I think that had the physio taken my blood pressure after calling me in, I might well have had a higher than usual reading.

But enough of that.  She prodded me.   She bent me. She waved my leg around.  She measured my thigh circumference.  She made me walk up and down the corridor (unfortunately not far enough down that I had sight of the sweaty lovelies in the weights room though - someone on Reception must have given her a heads up).

At the end of that, she told me to put my shoes back on, and I waited for the big reveal.

'You have a Baker's cyst, and it burst when you put it under pressure on the walk down the mountain'.

A Baker's cyst?  No, I hadn't heard of this either.  It sounds like it should come under the category of Victorian illnesses such as quinsy, housemaid's knee, tennis elbow and rickets.  Luckily, it's not going to stop me doing what I do,but the physio suggested some exercises to strengthen the knee.

'You can come into the gym and do it if you'd prefer', she said.

I shook my head (probably rather too rapidly), 'No, I'd rather do them at home', I said.

Me.  In a gym.  With all those body builders?

Oh, I don't think I could trust myself....