There is no name for being banned from your natural folded up position.

There’s a fair difference between knowing theoretically that having a leg in plaster requires propping it up and not standing on it and actually doing it.

I am a terminally fidgety person. Sr Teresa spent a lot of Primary 1 patiently training me to fidget quietly with my pencil instead of bouncing off my chair like a Jack-in-the-box. I am currently supposed to be putting absolutely no weight whatsoever on my right foot and keeping it up as much as humanly possible. My natural state of being is to be ricochetting off things at some speed or curling up in a variety of unlikley cat-like poses. Keeping one leg up does not allow for either of these things. Nor do crutches.


Also nerve endings are reviving and making a lot of noise. The tingling I can deal with, mostly, if it wasn’t being accompanied by a) itching and b) a combination of horrible dull ache and random stabbing pains. Especially unfun since I’m not allowed to take anything in the anti-inflammatory family, due to being in a cast and therefore on blood-thinners, so basically I have paracetamol or things which make my brain fall over. So various other twingey bits are acting up too AND I STILL HAVE TO STAY IN ONE PLACE ALL DAY.

As a result, this week is a bit of a state of crankypants. It’s very good that Mike is here, otherwise I’d be a lot less sane and the housemates would probably have had to put me out of their misery. I’ve been treating the poor man’s arm like a safety blanket and sleeping on him all week. He’s being very good about the whole broken, addled, cranky girlfriend thing.

Essentially, I need to have a good flail and I can’t. Three more weeks. Argh.


There are directions appendages are just not meant to go.

Monday night, after battling my way home through the police protection for the Council (apparently everyone else’s safety is of no fucking concern whatsoever) Other Housemate and I when climbing. I tackled the bouldering wall – there was one bit that was defeating me last week and I was going to get it, damnit. And I did. OH coached me up it, I got to the high point, realised I was too wuss to try the traverse, climbed down a bit, jumped the last foot or so and … completely dislocated my right ankle. On the crash mat. At no point was I more than five foot off the floor.

I am a GENIUS.

I got a glimpse as I went down – foot was turned right over the wrong way. OH was running before I’d actually hit the ground. If you’re going to do this, mind you, the best place is the climbing wall. There’s inevitably a herd of doctors/nurses/Mountain Rescuers about, four of who converged on me instantly while barking orders at everyone else.

Once the ambulance arrived and were convinced I hadn’t damaged my neck and really, truly didn’t need a backboard, they chopped up my trousers and socks and poor old trainers, and apparently everyone got a good view of my ankle bones. Except me. OH had me by the hair and was hissing ‘Look at me, look at me’ like the snake from the Jungle Book while going an interesting green colour.

Ambulance guys did not like it. I also got through their entire gas & air cylinder and all the morphine they could give me before we got to the Royal and they didn’t like that either. Registrar in A&E was a bit gleeful, as she apparently hadn’t seen a one of those for a while. Nobody is sure how the hell I hadn’t broken anything. Except my parents. My parents helpfully explained about how when I was learning to walk I had to sort out which directions my joints were meant to go in first. Everyone in earshot made a face.

So they patched me up (for values of patched that mean ‘the plaster is what is holding her ankle together’) plonked me in a bed and pumped antibiotics into me for four days. The ward staff were fabulous. The physios don’t trust me as far as they can throw me and I’m not allowed to try and stand still with crutches in case I kill myself or someone else. The doctor in charge of me did not make clear how not-stable the whole thing was for the plaster techs and was a bit of a dick about it when I pulled him on it, but I’m willing to let it slide since he did then write on my notes in large letters ‘COMPLETELY UNSTABLE DISLOCATION DO NOT REMOVE PLASTER WITHOUT STABILISING’ and underlined it in red.

And now I’m attempting to work from home while keeping my leg up and doped to the eyeballs. It is deeply, deeply ridiculous. My housemates and friends are being complete stars. Even the ones who googled it. Don’t google it. Really.