Someone who has not been WINNING this week is the missus, who debuted for her sister's netball team this week. She stays remarkably slim for someone with non-tiger blood who does no exercise and has a diet at which the Cookie Monster would raise a felt eyebrow. Feeling that she needs to do something to maintain this lucky physique, she hit the court keen to make an impression. She certainly made an impact, and will forever be known as "that girl who badly sprained her ankle within three seconds of her first match".
As she is currently on gardening leave it hasn't been such a chore to spend two days immobile with her foot in the air. She photographs the foot every hour and makes me sit through an endless stop motion swelling montage in the evening, at which time she has to strike a delicate balance. Bored after a day alone and essentially not unwell, her natural inclination is to jump up and down and tell me in great detail about, for example, a dream where a pony ate her engagement ring. But she is also keen to garner as much sympathy as possible and to not have to make her own tea, so the babble of chatter is occasionally interrupted for a huge groan, a theatrical wince and a suddenly weak croak of "I think the kettle's boiling....I would make the tea myself, but, hnnnnnnnghghhhh ow ow ow, sorry, the duvet just brushed against my ankle".
As an ankle sprain and break veteran, I'm biding my time. I'll buy her nurofen and tomato soup. When I next sprain mine, we'll see how often I can get the tea made for me before her patience cracks. And then I'll whinge about it here. As Charlie Sheen says, "that's how I roll. And if it's too gnarly for people, then buh-bye."
