Rhythm and Blues

I have not been running for the last two weeks, thanks to a coughy coldy thing and a twingy knee due to wearing unfamiliar, blingy high heels to a party last week.

On Saturday I resolved to set aside all things coughy, coldy and twingy, to keep my training on schedule. I stretched as usual and decided to take it easy and to pull up if I couldn't run it off.

I'd only done about 3/4 mile when something gave. Not in a good, 'I want you to be fully satisfied before I even consider my own pleasure' kind of way. But 'oh, shit, how are you going to get home from here on one leg with no mobile and no access to Dylan'.

Two neighbours apparently saw me in distress (as I found out later in the weekend when they said 'oh, I saw you limping on the road yesterday, was everything all right?'), but didn't stop to see if I needed help.

Ice packs, support bandages, curry at Yummy Mummy's and some splendid sports results have all failed to lift my mood and things have worsened today.

I'm really not steady on my feet, so I have acquired a stick. The problem is, it doesn't come with instructions and I don't seem to be able to get any kind of coordination. I'm taking the Greg House approach at present - leaning heavily on the stick when I step on the right foot, but it's ending up more like Rolf Harris doing Jake the Peg.

Despite having medals for ballroom dancing, it turns out I have no rhythm. Clearly the skills required to perform with a walking stick outweigh anything Strictly Come Dancing demands.

So all I have to look forward to in my old age is sitting on the sidelines in the nursing home sipping Guinness through a straw, while the other old biddies in their silver shoes and polygripped dentures cop off at the tea dance.