I woke up this morning able to move.
I’m still sore like, I don’t know, a fat guy who went over on his ankle, but I have a lot more motion than I did yesterday. And when my foot’s held nice and securely inside the tubigrip I’m almost back to entirely normal.
Having said all that, I’m still gingerly going up and down the stairs so I guess my basketball career and that marathon are both on hold for now. Just for a little bit.
It’s quite hard to rest your foot when you’re home alone. Stupid jobs have to be done like washing and taking the bins out and as it’s the general waste bin that’s not something I fancy leaving to fester for another fortnight – had it been the recycling then I would have stayed, foot in air, and the bin could go unemptied.
But then, I was already upright as I couldn’t let a good drying day go to waste.
Carole’s home tomorrow, though, stressed and flustered from her time away. I can’t work out if she’s enjoyed it or not. If it was me sending her the updates I’m getting from her then she’d have labelled me as defeatist and negative in many areas. So because of all that, I can’t be lying pathetically on the couch when she comes home and immediately ask her to bring me stuff. I need to be up and at ’em, doing things that need doing and whatever else.
In fact, subconsciously, I probably only twisted my ankle so that I couldn’t be accused of having an easy weekend…
I am looking forward to having her home though, complaining about UK things rather than the French’s support for disabled travellers which doesn’t start until after 10am, or the lack of pre-check in or countless other things that are driving her up the wall.
Although I suspect she will talk, non-stop, on all these subjects and more from the moment she sets foot in the house until the moment she goes to sleep.
Or I smother her with a pillow, whichever comes first.