Robyn’s Nest

My ickle friend spent a couple of days with me this week - she’s a teacher and thought she’d have less distractions at my place and could crack on with her marking while I was at work. She’s a PE teacher, probably half the size of most of her students and without make-up she could easily pass for a 12-year-old. She’s 29 this year.

But one of the things I love about her is her quirky sense of humour, which only those who know her best seem to get. She’s pretty quick witted and often causes discomfort for the many people who just don’t get her jokes.

We were in Currys last night looking at TVs and chatted to the sales guy about the spec and size and all that jazz. And we started talking about 32 inch TVs versus 40 inch TVs. Then ickle friend says: “Well, I’m not sure what to believe when men start talking about inches - they say this is six inches,” and then placed her hands as if she were holding a metre long invisible plank.

The poor TV guy didn’t get it at all and I quickly moved the conversation along. Then, later, when were at the food counter at the cinema, ickle friend asked for a cup of tea. “How big’s the large?” she enquired.

The poor guy serving her looked a tad on the shy side and held up a huge piece of cardboard with the prices on. He’d obviously misheard her. “Really, as big as that?” she said, and the poor chappy turned bright red and I had to hold in my giggles, being the mature 28-year-old I am.

Bless her. It was a fun evening, although her stay wasn’t that productive. She did my washing up for me (thanks!), did a bit of shopping and stomped round the flat in my heels (three sizes too big for her!) and sent me a text picture message of a notepad with “stinky marking” emblazened on it in biro. Hmmm.

I think the real reason for her visit (she travelled an hour down the M1 to see me) was an appointment with my physio, the one who sorted my ankle out. She’s got dodgy shoulders and wanted Mr Physio, who is quite cute but a tad on the short side for me, to take a look. She even wore the most inappropriate bra she could find and attempted to justify it to me. Nice try sunshine.

Anyway, it was lovely to have her to stay. Even if I do have to lug half her luggage back up the M1 tonight. She’d brought about three suitcases with her and didn’t have time to load them into the car this morning - she was running late for a date ‘cos she’d been to Next to buy an outfit ‘cos the 25 she had with her weren’t suitable, and because it was raining she was worried she’d get ger hair wet with too many trips to the car. Bless. 

Hangovers are difficult to deal with at the best of times. But last week I experienced a few things which made mine a whole lot worse.

Wearing thermals, hobbling across snow in ski boots, boiling to death in a swinging gondola and swooshing down a mountain at high speed are all things to be avoided should you wake up feeling like death following one too many the night before.

My only advice, should you find yourself strapped to a pair of skis in the French Alps, is make your way to the nearest deckchair at one of the mountain bars and stay there. If you can muster the energy, feel free to order a coke (let it go flat before drinking) or try hair of the dog, and once you can keep solids down try tucking into some pomme frites.

This technique was tried on a couple of occasions during my trip to Alpe D’huez last week - a holiday full of laughter, skiing, drinking and more laughter. My two girly mates and I were first to arrive at our chalet and made our mark by supping our way through the cocktail list before the rest of the guests descended.

The rest of the guests? Well, 24 of them were from or had links to Southend, and they kindly adopted the three of us for most of the week. Now us volleyballers thought we could drink - Mandy proved this when she downed the best part of a carafe of red wine - but we had nowt on this bunch. As much as I hated the hangovers, the Essex Crew made our holiday and certainly the apres ski wouldn’t have been the same without them.

My dodgy ankle survived the ski holiday but my ribs are sore - not from ski injuries but from the sort of belly laughing that could burst blood vessells. I did lose my sense of humour on a few occasions though.

One was on the “scare chair”, a chair lift which I can’t even put into words without shaking so click here to experience it. And when you have a hangover it’s a whole lot worse. The second is when both my ski buddies appeared to lose their hearing and forced me to repeat everything I said at least twice. Not good when you’re tired and grumpy. And the third is when we arrived at the airport for the journey home. It’s not much bigger than a tin shack and was so rammed with passengers I wouldn’t have been suprised to see a one in-one out policy in operation on the door. Oh, and there was the occasion when I forget my gloves, trekked up three flights of stairs to retrieve them, only to get to the bottom and realise I’d forgotten my sunnies as well. Bugger.

It was a great holiday although I did return home craving fruit, veggies, a gallon of water and a proper night’s sleep. Now I’ve had all of those things and am feeling a tad healthier than I did a few days ago I can reflect on my ski jollies and the lessons we learned along the way. Tune in for part two of my ski adventures….

I am so so so so cross with myself. Not for playing volleyball when the physio told me not to (only one set by the way, before the girls ganged up on me and banned me from the court “for my own good”) but for falling off a pavement and damaging my dodgy ankle further.

Okay, so a few shots of toffee vodka may have contributed to this wobble but still, if I could turn back time I would. I feel thoroughly frustrated and angry and grumpy and am trying really hard not to swear on this blog. Oh fuck it, I just did. I am a bloody idiot!

I did have a good weekend but watching volleyball instead of playing isn’t half as much fun and my 10 minutes on court was hardly worthy of the silver medal placed around my neck on Sunday. Well done girls! But I did leave my mark elsewhere - there’s a crash mat at Aber University with a me-shaped indent on it.

Not only was I relagated to the sidelines at the weekend I was also the nominated “beer bitch” as I hadn’t been on the Aber volleyball tour before. A “tour virgin” is the terminology I believe. Great. Evenings spent fetching other people’s beers. And this is a particularly tricky task when there are 15 to 20 people in a round and they all want cocktails with names like Sweaty Box, Cheeky Vimto, Princess Leah and Rubbish Lay. And they’re happy to point out when their glasses are empty too. Gits. Gotta love ‘em.

So yesterday, after a culmination of lack of sleep, eating crap food, drinking too much and falling off a pavement, I was in a foul mood, the only plus being that I’d booked a day off work so I couldn’t inflict this misery on my work colleagues.

My anger increased when my hairdresser - who would clearly rather have been somewhere else (a Weightwatchers class I should suggest) - failed to dry my hair properly after colouring it and, I realised when I got home, that she’d missed a bit at the front. A mini tantrum followed, in the privacy of my own bedroom. Aren’t you supposed to leave a salon feeling super glam, not like a semi-drowned rat with a mousey brown patch at the front of your head?

Anyway, it was date number five (with the same guy I hasten to add) last night and the poor old sole had to suffer my misery. I nearly scared him off, but not quite. He turned up with chocolate and a funny DVD and managed to make me laugh, ending my day of shiteness on a high.

Mr physio made me laugh today too with his comedy drawings of me and the exercises I’m supposed to do. Falling off a pavement did me no good what so ever and simply jumping or hopping on my bad ankle hurts. Oh bollocks!

Note to self: Avoid pavements with high kerbs, and best steer clear of cobbled streets too.

Aaaarrrggghhh. That’s what I feel like today. I’m pretty fed up. I kinda feel like I’ve got all this frustration building up that I can’t get rid of. And if I don’t get rid of it I might just explode.

Now what I don’t want to happen is for me to snap at someone unecessarily at work, shout at a friend over the phone, or drive my car into a lake. What I need to do - and which solve the problem completely - is play sport. BUT. I. CAN’T.

My damn ankle injury, although really not that serious considering (no fracture by the way, hoorah) is seriously limiting my fun. Already I’ve missed three volleyball games and two training sessions, plus two rounds of korfball, and I feel like I want to kill someone.

The other day one of my buddies said - and this wins quote of the week for me as she said it with such conviction: “I’ve had such a bad day I really feel like being violent to someone.” I’m glad I was talking to her on the phone!

Anyway, usually my aggressions are taken out on the volleyball court and I’ve realised how much I miss playing. Not just ‘cos you get to run around and get sweaty with your mates - no boys, we do NOT play in bikinis - but because it’s good for fitness and for getting rid of all your frustrations.

I can’t think of a substitute sport which won’t involve my ankle and to ease my misery I’m shovelling down food as if the shops will stop selling it tomorrow. I know it’s totally unreasonable and overdramatic but I feel like a bit of a beached whale, destined to watch my athletic friends from the sidelines and spend the rest of my walking life in flat shoes. Insert violin music here.

Yes, I know I’ve mentioned the flat shoes way too many times but it’s peeing me off. I tried my ball dress on last night with flatties and I look like a complete plum. I know there is no solution - I cannot wear heels, mr physio says so - and this just fuels my increasing frustration.

Deep breaths… out with anger… in with love. There that’s better. NOT.

Aarrgggh. Major dilemma. Got a ball to go to at the weekend and what with my dodgy ankle and all, it’s been pointed out to me that I might not be able to wear high heels.

Noooo! I can’t possibly wear flats with a dress. That’s a fashion no no when it comes to black tie dos.

Got an appointment with mr physio this afternoon so I’ll see what he says. There’s still a bit of fluid knocking around but it feels like it’s on the mend. Hopefully I can ditch the support bandage soon too - that’s not a good look with heels, and wearing tights will only make me look like I’ve got one normal leg and one fat leg. Oh, it’s oh so hard to make an impact on the world of fashion when you’ve got a sprained ankle.

Getting dressed this morning was a challenge in itself. It appears I actually don’t own a pair of completely flat shoes - apart from trainers, flip flops and slippers - and none of those look good with work trousers or skirts. So that’s why I’m still wearing jeans in the office. Just call me scruff bag.

We’ve got two National League volleyball games on Sunday and I’m gutted to be missing out because of my fat ankle, which is now crunching every time I walk, yuk.

But sod’s law has struck again. Lately, a few of us have been grappling for court time, with me in particular getting very uppity if I have to spend time on the bench. So, this weekend, the weekend I defo can’t play in case my leg falls off, is the weekend we’re short of players.

The captain managed to ski herself into a tree last week and has bruised fingers and thighs; me, as vice captain, is injured with mr physio has ordering me off the volleyball court for three weeks; our super sporty 16-year-old wing hitter has a three line whip to attend a family gathering (poor kid would no doubt rather be hanging with us athletes) and apparently there’s a question mark hanging over the Greek girl who joined our ranks a couple of months ago.

My mate - who seems to have been apppointed temporary volleyball dogsbody/secretary/volleyball counselling service kinda person - had a jumbled conversation with her last night and still has no idea if she actually can’t play on Sunday, or if she just doesn’t want to. She just kept saying “it’s crazy” apparently. No love, you’re crazy. You can’t ditch a team in their hour of need without good reason. Where is her sporting ettiquette? Enough said, I’ve managed to keep this blog entry polite so far, so I should probably end it here.

Good luck girls, hope you kick some ass! I was hoping to go and watch/be the coach’s glamourous assistant but a trip to Norwich is a long way to go for no on-court action. And I know what I’m like. I’d be tempted to get on court and knacker myself up good and proper. Not wise.

The good news is that I’ve stopped walking like I’ve sat on something long and sharp, and the bad news is I am absoloutely knackered.

My ankle is hurting less and less but other body parts are now starting to ache. My back hurts from walking lop sided, my hands hurt from the crutches, my good leg hurts from all the hopping I did initially, and my shoulders hurt because… well, I’ve no idea why they hurt, they just do.

I had a date this week too. I have trouble hanging onto men at the best of times but crutches aren’t the fashion accessory I’d usually go for, and an ankle the size of Gibralter ain’t attractive. If it wasn’t so funny, I think I’d cry.

Anyway, I don’t like to bring attention to myself too much - unless I’m making a statement of extreme comedy value - but it’s been hard not to attract comments when walking like I was attached to an invisible ball and chain.

But, I have to say, people have been lovely to me. Apart from the sprinkling of comments like peg leg, hop along, invalid etc, folk have been great and offered plenty of sympathy. I’ve had lifts into work, dinner cooked for me, offers of general help/fetching shopping etc and regular expressions of concern. So thanks folks.

When I left the house on Sunday to play volleyball against Cambridge I was a sprightly, fit and healthy 28-year-old looking forward to kicking some arse on court. Now? Well, now I’m much like a pensioner hobbling around, needing someone to help me get to the toilet and generally causing a nuisance.

I went over on my ankle during the game - there was screaming but I didn’t cry - and spent the rest of the match on the floor in agony, with my ankle iced and propped up on the bench. Boo hoo!

When I took my trainer off a couple of hours later my once slim (ish) ankle was baseball size and it hurt a lot. I have to point to out that I am rubbish with pain and anything to do with muscles and bones makes me feel a bit sick.

Despite the pain I was in complete denial about the state of my ankle, thinking a bit of ice and a good night’s sleep would do to the trick. Nope. A taxi ride and a lot of hopping got me into the office and I realised just how disabled I was. This is not good for a control freak, super independent kinda person. Asking my work buddy to take me to the toilet was a tad embarrassing, but as it involved two flights of stairs, I couldn’t go it alone.

So, a trip to physio man followed and he made me feel sick again. All that talk about ligaments and rips and tears. Yuk. He strapped me up and gave me his diagnosis - a grade one sprain with possible ligament damage, although it’s hard to swell, sorry, I mean tell, because it’s so swollen. He gave me a lesson on crutches - suddenly I feel about 70 - and ruled out volleyball for three weeks. My hopes to play in two big National League games this Sunday have been dashed. Gutted.

Mr physio thinks I’ll be good for skiing in four weeks as long as I do the right things to get my ankle strong again - so no high heels for a while then. High heels? I can’t even carry a cup of tea from the kitchen to the lounge without emptying half of it on the floor. I feel like I need to get a nurse-maid in. It’s only been two days and I’m fed up already. Have you ever tried getting into a bath when you can ony use one leg? Not pretty.

So, the positives of this sorry tale? I can’t think of any but I guess I’m lucky to that having played competitive sport for a good 15 years, it hasn’t happened sooner.  Another sign that old age is approaching? Maybe.