I’m sure I’ve done a post with a similar title at least once before; Sod’s Law is universal, it chucks its brickbats indiscriminately at all and sundry.
Some years ago I broke my ankle; we were going on holiday and interrupted the journey to give our then dog, Boris, a pee stop on a pretty picnic site. The grass had been freshly cut and a large heap of clippings had been dropped down an embankment, which lead into some woods. A perfect place for a dog to empty himself, I thought. Boris thought so too. He made off down the slope into the woods, me following. And slipping on the clippings.
An ambulance came and instead of going on holiday I went into hospital, where a lot of metal was nailed in place to mend the ankle.
Some months ago this ankle began to feel rather stiff; not madly painful, just uncomfortable. Eventually I saw an orthopaedic surgeon who said other than operate and take out the assorted pins, plates and nails there was little to be done. Not an ideal solution, to my mind. It would take another lot of plaster and weeks of recovering mobility. He was a lovely Indian doctor, young, handsome and keen to do something for me, so, after feeling all around the ankle, studying the x-ray, playing a game of push and shove, twist and turn with my foot, he metaphorically scratched his head, sighed, and asked would I be happy to see a physiotherapist and do some exercises. Large deep brown eyes implored me to say yes and make him feel that he hadn’t failed his patient.
So then I went to see the physiotherapist, another young man, this time with sweet blue eyes. He too fiddled about with foot and ankle and came up with no other solution than to give me some exercises to do.
By now ankle and foot had recovered a bit anyway - or perhaps the weather had changed and dried up enough to ease the rheumatics - so I forgot about the exercises until, about two weeks ago, I saw the sheet of paper still lying on the hall table at the bottom of the stairs. One of the exercises uses steps so I had a quick go, whipping my foot up and down on the bottom stair. Ten times. It pulled a bit.
By the next day I was in agony; the ankle was fine but my hip was on fire. For two weeks I have been limping and cursing, using a stick to propel myself forwards and clinging to chairs and tables and sofas, praying for the paradise of mobility regained.
The hip is easing, finally. There’s been no gardening and only the most abbreviated dog walking. If it hadn’t been so very painful I’d have laughed.