Oh, and about the physio.
Last week's prodding with pins and needles appeared to be a success. I must admit to a certain scepticism regarding complimentary medicines - if I had a heart attack in the cinema, the last thing I'd want to hear is "Is there a herbalist in the house?" And it would probably end up being the last thing I heard - "I'm sorry, even with the essential oils we still lost the patient..."
But I digress. In spite of my scepticism, I felt pretty good in the days following treatment. So much so, that I ran for the train the night before last to ensure I could be present for the whole Brownie thing.
(note to all single parents not living with their kids - when you make a promise to a child that you'll be there for something, make sure you keep it)
This was a silly thing to do. The running, not the keeping of the promise. Yesterday morning I awoke with my leg feeling like I'd run a marathon. I fervently hoped that it was only the mile-long sprint to the station after over 2 months of inaction that was causing the pain, rather than anything more serious.
The physio poked, prodded and stuck in some more needles. She then gave me a clean bill of health.
"What about the skiing?" I asked. I have somewhat of a one-track mind.
"Oh, you'll be fine," she said, "Totally different motion. Don't do any more running though, ok?"
"Ok" (scientists have since used the period of thought it took me to agree to not running as a measurement for the smallest possible slice of time)
"One thing though - when you go skiing, don't fall down - ok?"
Ah. I think I'll keep that little nugget of advice to myself. Fortunately the physio is unaware of the unique blend of enthusiasm over talent that I use when I hit the slopes. And I'm using 'hit' in the most literal sense of the word.
