Full of euphoria having successfully negotiated the Machame route to the summit of Kilimanjaro the previous week, I played only my 3rd game of football of the Sunday League season. I felt invincible, invigorated by my high altitude fitness and impassioned by the usual pre-match tub-thumping tune - 'Smack My Bitch Up'. My 'invincibility' lasted approximately 70 minutes when I went sliding in for a loose ball at full stretch. As luck would have it, an opposing player was simultaneously attempting the put the ball in the back of the net from 30 yards with alarming fury, as if the ball itself had just insulted his mother's honour. With my left foot right behind the ball on impact, I felt it snap back in excruciating pain.
It didn't feel good and looked like the sort of ankle you'd expect to see on an elderly shopper sitting outside the Derngate Centre in Northampton (see above). I hobbled off the pitch and tried to run it off...some urgent medical attention was required. Yes, that's right - a small bag of ice, some Thai food and several pints of lager in the post-match local were exactly what the doctor would have ordered (assuming the doctor was Alex Higgins). Unsurprisingly, the beef massaman didn't contain magical joint healing spices although the Kronenbourg was sufficiently analgesic to ease my journey home.
A visit to the doctor the next day was worryingly curt. I hobbled in and took my sock off. He winced, handed me an x-ray form and urged a swift visit to St. George's. Unfortunately, this short episode was a sufficient window for a parking attendant (or Jobsworth Blood Sucking Nazis as I prefer to call them) to ticket me for parking on a single yellow line. A conversation with the said Nazi yielded little: apparently, the sight of me hobbling out of the surgery, visibly in pain and clutching an x-ray form was insufficient reason to park directly outside. The dispute with Lambeth Council is ongoing (NB: I drive an automatic so didn't need to use my left foot).
The visit to St. George's was less curt but with a similarly frustrating outcome: 1-hour wait, hobble into assessment room, take off sock, nurse winces and says cheerily "If that's not broken, I'll eat my hat" before advising “you'll probably have to wait several hours to be seen”. Three hours later: hobble into emergency room, take off sock, doctor winces and sends me for an x-ray. Another hour later: doctor frowns at x-ray, declares it inconclusive but that the ankle is not broken, hands me a pair of crutches and books me in for physio the following week.
To cut a long and tedious story short, after several weeks of NHS physio, I was given the all clear and told I would be running within a week or two (mid December). I knew my ankle didn’t feel right. The whole joint felt as if it had been encased in tar and left to dry, and the tendon on the outside was periodically ‘flicking’ around my ankle bone accompanied by piercing pain. And I was making it worse by running in the gym as part of my ‘recovery’. I pointed this out to the hospital staff and was told it would clear up in due course...
