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. 

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.

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.