Feburary 22nd - D+5 The Descent of Mann

I was dreading this. The inevitable onset of lethargy and a jelly like mass around my waistband. It’s hardly surprising since I’ve spent the last 5 days sitting on a sofa, the main ‘activities’ of the day being mealtimes and periodic trips to the bathroom (which take a surprising amount of effort – doing anything on one leg requires considerable concentration and balance control).

I’m obliged to keep my leg elevated for the first 2 weeks to prevent pain and infection which further limits me to the same sofa which has cushions and pillows arranged accordingly. Which means my entire world consists of a 15ft by 20ft room with occasional trips to the bathroom. Or should I say ‘latrine’. For this is starting to feel like a prison. True, I have my mum’s finest food, tea and snacks delivered to my lap but I’m confined nonetheless. It’s a gilded cage – or rather, an embroidered cage.

And just like a ‘correctional facility’ or ‘penal institution’, I had my own unsavoury episode in the shower block (ok, the ensuite shower room). Fortunately, there was no-one third party involved in my mishap. Sans crutches as I stepped out of the shower, I leant on a towel rail for support. Underestimating my own weight (or strength?...) the rail promptly came away from the wall bringing fair sized chunks of plaster with it. I held the rail in my hand and looked at it for a couple of seconds before realising I’d put all of my weight on to my plastered foot – which was now in agony. I dropped the rail, cursed and hobbled out of the bathroom.

Something didn’t feel right under the plaster. Nonetheless, I dressed and hobbled downstairs to my cushioned cell, calmly telling my mum that I’d detached some of her bathroom furniture from the wall. As I lifted my leg up to the sofa, I felt something warm and damp squelching under the plaster. Blood. I was pretty sure I’d burst a stitch. Unfortunately, I have prior experience of bursting stitches under a plaster cast thanks to an unsavoury episode in Tenerife some years ago. And this felt the same. I plugged myself with painkillers as my brother went to upstairs survey the damage.

The upside of my ‘incarceration’ however is the ample opportunity to make inroads into the mini skyscraper of books transported from London. As well as having plenty of time to organise stag-dos, arrange pre-season football tours and other personal errands. Daily ‘visiting time’ has also provided light relief with my 9-year old nephew popping round regularly with his PlayStation football game. Yesterday I thrashed him 11-1. And then 7-2. As I said to his dad, it’s important that he learns how to take defeat.

So here I am in my own personal prison. Lying on the sofa worrying about my expanding waistline, turning away larger portions of home cooked food and bemoaning the lack of football on TV during the daytime. I imagine it’s exactly how Mandela felt.

Highlights & stats:
DVDs watched: 1 (The Departed)
Cups of tea per day: 5
Pills per day: 22
Stag weekends missed: 1
Days until plaster removed: 8
Current reading: A Most Wanted Man
Music: Rags to Riches, Tony Bennett