One week’s travels with my ankle

I have this feeling that I’ve run out of things to say, a very unlikely scenario.  Some of you, of course, may breathe a sigh of relief.  But, for myself, I have found that this blogging thing is a little like that old-fashioned and sadly declining habit of letter writing; the more you write, the more you have to say and the easier it becomes.  Unfortunately, the effort of hopping around on crutches, balanced by excessive time spent sitting on my backside, and more television than I’ve watched in my life, seems to have knocked my motivation for, well, anything, for six.  I started writing this post last week and never got round to finishing it. So get on with it, GPM.  It’s already out of date.  It’s too long.  It’s boring.  What follows is an etiolated diary entry.  You have been warned.

Saturday a week ago began at 0530 in the pouring rain.  It’s the sort of morning time that only exists in books or to catch a low tide.  It certainly doesn’t normally impinge on my consciousness.  Anyhow, conscious or not, we saw GP1, his mates and a handful of brave (or should that be lucky?) teachers onto the bus to the south of France.  Jealous?  Perhaps not of the bus journey, but certainly of the rest.  GP2 is green but his turn will come.  Working on the theory that no news is the best sort, it became clear during the week that they were having a great time! 

The day continued into Edinburgh, still in the unrelenting rain, to meet London sister and husband who were up to see their eldest’s graduation show at the College of Art.  They are both out of plaster and off crutches, fortunately, so I feel there is light somewhere for me. I hopped round as much as I could manage on my own crutches, with GP2 and big sis for company, and was wowed by the huge diversity of talent on display.  GP2’s favourites were the big sculptures done by some of the Masters students. My niece is licking her wounds at present as, having been a prize-winning star student all her life and apparently heading for a first, she has, to everyone’s surprise, come out with a much lower degree and no idea why.  Having looked round the exhibition, it certainly wasn’t obvious to me why this should have happened.  The first piece of advice from her mother is to paint smaller pictures if she wants to make a living.  She must have spent most of the last 6 months on a step ladder and will have to wait for a captain of industry to come by, looking for something to decorate his foyer. 

Evening came, it was still raining and we had a birthday barbecue to go to in Tyninghame’s beautiful village hall.  There was a crowd over from Belfast, including Jane, last seen wincing at the rear of the ambulance as the paramedics took a large pair of shears to my drysuit.  (I must phone the insurance company.) 

Sunday was spent on the sofa, exhausted by my expeditions into the big world outside the house and nursing blisters on my hands.  Thank goodness for the Artois tennis finals and a Grand Prix to boot. GP2, however, went to watch the World Team Badminton finals in Glasgow and came back hugely excited and inspired.   Monday’s highlight was a toss-up between making spicule preparations to identify sponges, a very soothing activity I find, and another escape from the cage to the Edubuzz meeting, where my leg took up the last chair available. 

It struck me during the Edubuzz meeting, when someone mentioned Grease, the show that Ross High has just put on, that I sometimes feel I know more about what goes on in Pencaitland and Law Primaries than I do about Ross High.  Still, I expect there’ll be a report in the local paper.  Sure enough, I read all about it in the Courier on Thursday.  Thursday, Friday… did I do anything? I can’t remember.  Saturday saw the village gala parade go past in the pouring rain.  Most of the bagpipes, including husband’s, had stopped working by the end due to the volume of water that had found its way into the drones.   

And Sunday evening the school trip returned, with a brief hiatus in rain showers longSee You Jimmy hat - Royal Stewart tartan enough to get the bags off the bus.   GP1 was a sight to behold, in flowery pink surfing shorts and a Jimmy hat.  I’m sure he’s even taller than when he left.  He was surprisingly chatty on Sunday evening, despite 24 hours on the bus, but had reverted to type this morning as we tried to get him out to school.  Kevin could be considered communicative, cooperative and dynamic in comparison. 

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