March 2009

[Sweder]

Following a day I'll be happy to forget, when everything that could go wrong at work somehow did, I sought solace in the bosom of duffers badminton last night. Fool! I should've learned to read the portents, studied the Fairtrade tea-leaves and driven home at 20 mph to pull the duvet over my sorrowful head (windows open to avoid asphixiation, that's a given).

But no. I elected to take to the floor with a gaggle of strangely wired senior citizens for some gentle shuttlecock stroking. Following a particularly energetic opening set I notice some discomfort in the arch of my right foot. Several games later it was all I could do to hobble home. Wifey cheerfully informs me I've pulled my plantar muscle (who knew?), an ailment familiar to dancers generally and to my whirling, twirling daughter in particular. It rounded off a day of complete and utter crapness.

This morning said plate is extremely sore. It feels like a surgeon has tried to beat out a decent arch in my laughably flat foot using a ball peen hammer. My planned sortie into the Sussex hills, like my foot, is on ice. I'm preparing to return to the scene of yesterdays multiple officides. Like a detective who's missed the big scene after drowning his sorrows in a low-life neighborhood bar I need to show my stubbly, red-eyed face to see if forensics can reveal how a man can be so entirely incompetent in such a limited space of time, and if the havoc wreaked can in some way be repaired.

TFIF.