It all started out so well...
A beautiful cottage in the Cotswolds to celebrate my friend P's birthday. I was delighted to discover one of her friends had recently qualified in Swedish massage and brought her massage table along. And it's wonderful having an award-winning beauty editor as a friend, not only is she truly fabulous but she also keeps me very well stocked in all the latest beauty products and celebrity gossip - two of my favourite things. She did not disappoint this weekend, arriving laden with 10 products each for us to blind test, resulting in me now having the skin of a 15 year old, the hair of Jennifer Aniston and the face of Helena Christiansen. Obviously I won't put photos up as I don't want to make everyone else feel uncomfortable.
Friday night was spent in our pyjamas, chatting and drinking wine in front of a log fire. After a glorious night's sleep under a duck feather duvet, I woke up feeling refreshed and looking forward to a relaxing day ahead.
The birthday girl had other plans, having already given us an itinerary saying we would be going for a "short" 5 mile walk.
Our beautylicious friend had tried in vain to get out of it by declaring that she only had high heels or brand new Ugg boots in her possession and was devastated to be informed that someone had some spare wellies that would fit her.
Laughing, we trudged through the pretty village and out into some woods and fields, picking up inches of mud on our shoes, making each step heavier and heavier, happily catching up on all the latest dramas in each other's lives.
A couple of miles in as we were heading from one field into another, up a muddy walkway somebody shouted back to be careful as it was a bit slippery.
With what could only be considered impeccable comic timing, I called back "don't worry, if anyone's going to fall over it will be..........SHIT!" as I skidded like a cow on ice skates on a big squishy patch of mud, landing awkwardly on the ankle I broke in a previous accident where I sledged off a cliff.
Lying flat out in the mud, I felt like a total dick as I could feel everyone else looking at me uncomfortably working out whether to panic or piss themselves.
"Quick, get up! You're getting covered in mud!"
"I can't get up! I've hurt my ankle again!" I quipped, trying to grab the stray hand being offered in my direction.
I managed to stand and declared that I wanted to go back to the cottage, but it turned out we were already half way round the walk, so we might as well carry on going.
Approximately 5 miles later we arrived back at the cottage and I removed my trainer to discover my ankle had all the dimensions of a golf ball and was very difficult to move.
P got me some ice and I lay out like a little wounded kitten, resting my leg on the arm of the sofa.
"Do you think it's broken?" I hoped.
"Probably not!" came the reply.
Alcohol was the only option to numb the pain but when I awoke the next morning it had got worse. I lay there imagining all the attention and sympathy I would get when I got home and found out that I had walked miles on a severely fractured ankle. Thank god I'm not a professional footballer - not only would I be a douchebag but I'd be a douchebag with a career-ending injury. Tough times.
When I got home I couldn't even walk to the bus stop so I did what I always do in these situations where there is a chance I am overreacting: rang my mum.
To my amazement, she agreed with me and sent my Dad out to take me to casualty. I was thrilled when everyone at the hospital appeared impressed with my injury and my toughing it out through the pain rather than draining the resources of search and rescue.
I had a wonderful catch up in X-ray with a girl who went to school with my sister and is now a radiographer but could not hide my devastation when she cheerfully announced the "good news" that it was not broken.
Damn it. Back to work for me tomorrow then.
So no plaster cast, but I almost made it away with a set of crutches (which would have helped me milk the situation for several extra days) but alas they seemed to have none left. So if you've got a pair of crutches knocking about at home, take them back to the hospital please! There are people (not me) who need them. Thankfully it was very quiet on a Sunday night and the staff were all lovely and told me since I had broken it before I definitely did the right thing coming to get it X-rayed. I knew I wasn't a hypochondriac!
I spent the rest of the evening walking like I had soiled myself - much to Mr G's amusement. Although for all I knew he could still have been laughing from my previous tumble where I slipped on a pedestrian crossing outside of work and ripped a huge hole in my tights like a primary school child who fell over playing kiss chase.
When I woke up this morning I tentatively stepped out of bed, panting like I was in labour, to discover it was practically cured.
A beautiful cottage in the Cotswolds to celebrate my friend P's birthday. I was delighted to discover one of her friends had recently qualified in Swedish massage and brought her massage table along. And it's wonderful having an award-winning beauty editor as a friend, not only is she truly fabulous but she also keeps me very well stocked in all the latest beauty products and celebrity gossip - two of my favourite things. She did not disappoint this weekend, arriving laden with 10 products each for us to blind test, resulting in me now having the skin of a 15 year old, the hair of Jennifer Aniston and the face of Helena Christiansen. Obviously I won't put photos up as I don't want to make everyone else feel uncomfortable.
Friday night was spent in our pyjamas, chatting and drinking wine in front of a log fire. After a glorious night's sleep under a duck feather duvet, I woke up feeling refreshed and looking forward to a relaxing day ahead.
The birthday girl had other plans, having already given us an itinerary saying we would be going for a "short" 5 mile walk.
Our beautylicious friend had tried in vain to get out of it by declaring that she only had high heels or brand new Ugg boots in her possession and was devastated to be informed that someone had some spare wellies that would fit her.
Laughing, we trudged through the pretty village and out into some woods and fields, picking up inches of mud on our shoes, making each step heavier and heavier, happily catching up on all the latest dramas in each other's lives.
A couple of miles in as we were heading from one field into another, up a muddy walkway somebody shouted back to be careful as it was a bit slippery.
With what could only be considered impeccable comic timing, I called back "don't worry, if anyone's going to fall over it will be..........SHIT!" as I skidded like a cow on ice skates on a big squishy patch of mud, landing awkwardly on the ankle I broke in a previous accident where I sledged off a cliff.
Lying flat out in the mud, I felt like a total dick as I could feel everyone else looking at me uncomfortably working out whether to panic or piss themselves.
"Quick, get up! You're getting covered in mud!"
"I can't get up! I've hurt my ankle again!" I quipped, trying to grab the stray hand being offered in my direction.
I managed to stand and declared that I wanted to go back to the cottage, but it turned out we were already half way round the walk, so we might as well carry on going.
Approximately 5 miles later we arrived back at the cottage and I removed my trainer to discover my ankle had all the dimensions of a golf ball and was very difficult to move.
P got me some ice and I lay out like a little wounded kitten, resting my leg on the arm of the sofa.
"Do you think it's broken?" I hoped.
"Probably not!" came the reply.
Alcohol was the only option to numb the pain but when I awoke the next morning it had got worse. I lay there imagining all the attention and sympathy I would get when I got home and found out that I had walked miles on a severely fractured ankle. Thank god I'm not a professional footballer - not only would I be a douchebag but I'd be a douchebag with a career-ending injury. Tough times.
When I got home I couldn't even walk to the bus stop so I did what I always do in these situations where there is a chance I am overreacting: rang my mum.
To my amazement, she agreed with me and sent my Dad out to take me to casualty. I was thrilled when everyone at the hospital appeared impressed with my injury and my toughing it out through the pain rather than draining the resources of search and rescue.
I had a wonderful catch up in X-ray with a girl who went to school with my sister and is now a radiographer but could not hide my devastation when she cheerfully announced the "good news" that it was not broken.
Damn it. Back to work for me tomorrow then.
So no plaster cast, but I almost made it away with a set of crutches (which would have helped me milk the situation for several extra days) but alas they seemed to have none left. So if you've got a pair of crutches knocking about at home, take them back to the hospital please! There are people (not me) who need them. Thankfully it was very quiet on a Sunday night and the staff were all lovely and told me since I had broken it before I definitely did the right thing coming to get it X-rayed. I knew I wasn't a hypochondriac!
I spent the rest of the evening walking like I had soiled myself - much to Mr G's amusement. Although for all I knew he could still have been laughing from my previous tumble where I slipped on a pedestrian crossing outside of work and ripped a huge hole in my tights like a primary school child who fell over playing kiss chase.
When I woke up this morning I tentatively stepped out of bed, panting like I was in labour, to discover it was practically cured.
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