Hopelessly devoted to you...

I'm going stir crazy.

I'm grounded from doing anything vaguely exciting for the next few weeks or so.  To give you some idea, the most exciting thing I have to look forward to is another trip to my lovely osteopath tomorrow.  And it's not like that's fun.  On any level.  Monday's appointment had me sweating profusely on the table, teeth gritted with one leg in the air, while he calmly told me to 'keep breathing', and that 'no one ever died from an osteopathic maneuver'.  

Well ladies, I beg to differ.  Ten more minutes of that, and I'd be faced with the dilemma of where to hide the body having slapped him round the head with a snatched femur of the gloating skeleton which hangs in his and every other osteopath's office.  Thinking about that, I reckon that this is the last osteopath to ever do that 'small but intense' stretch on someone else.  Watch and learn, my friend.  Watch and learn.

So there is no dog walking, no visits into town and no gardening.  To top it all, Ascot is on this week which means that I don't even have Tipping Point to fall back on.  Many a happy hour is spent in this house shouting, 'Number 3 you idiot!' or the husband's particular favourite, 'I wouldn't have put it there'.

With yet another boring afternoon looming, I said to Mrs S (Binland one) that I was going to go home this afternoon and watch Grease on the television.

Now I was fifteen when this came out in 1978, and I looked up to Danny Zuko as the perfect man - cool, handsome and dangerous with a heart worth waiting for.  Having watched the film at the cinema ten times (eleven if you count the time I went and snogged Gareth Millington all the way through it) you'll understand it when I say that I'm a bit of a fan.  

Sitting (un)comfortably on the sofa, I pressed the play button, and settled down for an afternoon of nostalgia. 

And here ladies, is where the problems started.

You see, when this film came out, I was a lot younger than the Danny and Sandy characters, and it was all rather exciting.  Within ten minutes of putting it on, I suddenly realised that I was now older than the Principal of Rydale High.

I'm sorry I watched it now.

Perhaps 'Murder, She Wrote' might be more fitting tomorrow...