Turn Back. Your Satnav is Wrong

I don't quite feel up to a proper post, so let's see how we get on by just spilling out some of the fragmentary half-ideas for proper posts that are all I have to offer on a brain-fried Friday night, and seeing if any of them fit together in any way:

1. Logging on to the computer just now I see that Frankie (or at least, I assume it was Frankie) has been searching for images of my namesakes on Google. The resultant rogues' gallery makes intriguing reading, or should I say viewing, and it was all I could do to drag myself away from them to come over here instead. From a scan of the first 30 images it would appear that various people with my exact name have been busy:

-getting themselves ordained as smalltime provincial bishops

-soliciting employment as a 'clinical Hypnotherapist life coach', whatever that means

-racing mountainbikes through inhospitable overseas terrain

and

- competing in the World Poker Championships.

There weren't any pictures of my week's activities, I am glad to say, as I'm not sure the internet could cope with images of a man waiting impatiently for the 169 bus to the Westside, arriving bedraggled at crucial business meetings having just stepped off the delayed number 41 out of Northenden, or whiling away the ten minute delay between dropping Frankie off at school and catching the 169 to the Westside by loitering in the newspaper section of Tescos Levenshulme, attempting to read the inside pages of the Guardian without attracting the attentions of the security staff.

2. Getting into work this morning (at quarter-to-eleven- this flirtation with the buses, caused by the Italian scooter's absolute refusal to countenance emerging from hibernation until the temperatures are comfortably into double figures-is playing hell with my flexitime) I came across an A4 sign, sellotaped to the photocopier, which read 'Photocopier For Staff Use Only'. Which when you consider my office is on the fifth floor of an anonymous towerblock, set back from a dual carriageway, guarded by a reception desk staffed by liveried attendants, and secured by computerised door-fobs, is so unnecessary as to border on the surreal. And also reminds me of a much larger sign which stands at the entrance to a rough track bordering a farmers field near Lyme Park, which reads simply 'Turn Back. Your Satnav is Wrong'.

3.Talking of Lyme Park (which it would appear I am all of a sudden) I sustained a mystery injury there the other week. We had set off for what I solemnly assured everyone was a 10 minute walk- maybe 20 at the outside- from Middlewood Way. Turns out it is an hour and a half, which would be arduous enough, even before we consider the six inches of snow and the fact I was dragging Frankie along in a sledge. So maybe it's not that mysterious but all of a sudden (and without me falling, or slipping, or experiencing any sudden trauma) I became aware of a great big lump the size of a golf ball, which had appeared half way down my right shin. Once home, I was worried enough to catch a taxi to the infirmary, where the out-of-hours doctor assured me that it wasn't actually thrombosis, or gangreen, or any of the other life-threatening conditions my overactive imagination had conjured up, it was just a ruptured calf, and that I should go home, put my feet up, and take a couple of Ibuprofens. Three weeks later, the leg is still on, if still very slightly mishapen, and it managed last weekend to withstand hiking around London including a two mile walk from Westminster Bridge to Vauxhall occasioned by our inadequate understanding of the Tube network, so I think we can assume he knew what he was talking about.

Right. Enough from me I think. Time to put my feet up, crack open this bottle of premium Japanese lager from Levenshulme Tescos (3 for the Price of 2) to wash down the last of the Ibuprofen, and tune into Newsnight review... or maybe just stare at the walls for a half an hour before falling asleep on the couch. We know how to live round here you know, oh yes. Bring on the weekend.

Comments

[looby]

A ruptured calf? How's mother?

[ISBW]

Rest, Ice, Compress, Elevate. RICE. Indispensable for any sprain or tear. But needs to be done in the first 24 hours, so probably of no use whatsoever to you now.

Still, the thought was there. Hope you feel better.

[MQ]

I've got some leftover rice if you need it.

[abby]

Eeee, I'd say you got yourself a handsome blog post there, and glad to see your ruptured calf drama immortalised. I just got a couple of (well, four) pens from the works stationery cupboard and am now debating about whether they are for staff use...

[Jonathan]

And thank you also for your kind comments on this post! I can confirm the leg is still on and that there have been no further urgent visits to the Manchester Royal Infirmary Out of Hours Drop In, or for that matter spacehopper-inflicted complications (see next post). And Abby, I think you are allright with those ballpens, but if I were you I'd put back those luminous flower shaped post-it notes, and definitely the guillotine. You'll never get that past reception, of for that matter onto your foldy-up bicycle.