Have you ever noticed how often you want to go to the loo when you can’t walk properly? When even a short ten-foot journey to the bathroom is an endless distance and unspeakable agony for every inch of it? And it was going to the loo that got me into this predicament in the first place.
I’m on holiday. I knew it was a bad idea and I said so. I told them. Many, many times. God doesn’t give us laptops so we can frivolously abandon them to gallivant half way across the world for unjustified and unauthorly enjoyment. I warned them. I said it would end badly. And it did.
The first day was fine. I did the traditional tourist thing. There was sun and meeting friends and a glass of wine and a nice lunch and I was beginning to think my misgivings had been completely unjustified. I’d even been able to write a couple of sneaky paragraphs in the bathroom when no one was looking and then – this morning, I had a bit of an incident.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re all reading the previous paragraph and thinking – Wine? Daft bat! Sloshed again.
Well, it was just after breakfast and even I can’t drink wine at breakfast. I’ve tried. It didn’t end well.
Anyway, having gorged myself on everything in sight and drunk three cups of tea, obviously a visit to the facilities was called for. Asking for directions, a charming young man indicated ‘just over there’ and while I was craning my neck to see where ‘just over there’ was, I fell the colossal distance of four whole inches and wrenched my foot. I mean we are talking black football here.
I was helped to my feet by an enormous number of charming young men – because that’s what it takes to get me on my feet these days – although I wasn’t complaining. It was almost equal to the occasion when I looked up and six young men were climbing in through my bedroom window just prior to rescuing me from the flash flood doing its best to wash our cottage away. I can’t tell you how many fantasy boxes that ticked, but back to the diseased foot.
It’s agony. Six hours later, it still hurt like hell. It’s still swollen now, but with blue rather than black bruising, which is interesting and coordinates rather nicely with my top.
I’m surviving on a mixture of Ibuprofen and Pringles and I’m alternately either too sleepy to think straight, or in unbearable agony depending on which point of the pain cycle I’ve reached. They are very strong painkillers and amazingly effective. The pain is still excruciating but I’m feeling very cheerful about it.
And, of course, because I can barely even move my leg, I’m up and down to the bathroom every ten minutes because I’m the proud owner of the bladder that just keeps on giving.
I am never going on holiday again. Ever. Never going to happen. And because I don’t have my laptop with me you won’t get the chance to read this until next week. Many of you may be able to combine it with attending my memorial service, because I’m not going to survive this. I always thought it would be the Accent Electrodes that did for me and I would expire in a shower of sparks, clumsy metaphors and explosive punctuation, but it was the holiday that got me in the end.
Farewell, cruel world …
Actually, there’s been a bit of a renaissance. My chemically induced haze of goodwill produced a tiny idea for a Max, Markham and Peterson story. Just a couple of hundred words. I’ll get it typed up and maybe post it tomorrow …
I shall call it ‘Markham and the Anal Probing,’ because that won’t give Accent Press anything to worry about at all …