Up early despite being knackered from the previous days new exploits in the gym – I joined and in my first session used the treadmill, reclined bike and the salt water pool.
I had to go to an NHS therapy drop-in clinic. You drop in and wait for a couple of hours, but they at least give you more paperwork to fill in to pass the time. I sit and wait and watch and hope. Hope that this time I’ll get a more senior Physioterrorpist…one with some experience of inflicting medicinal pain. I eventually get lucky as I get the guy wearing a suit, not jogging bottoms. I go through the accident and injuries, which feels like the definition of me at times. Then he starts work in my elbow.
Then I have to rush from NHS physio to the private one, where I get to use my own private pool and then get stabbed with needles, flexed and pulled and scraped with a metal spoon and coconut oil. She also confirms she knows the NHS man in a suit – a senior specialist I’m told. He likes ankles too. “Take your X-rays along and he might give an opinion on that too,” she says.
I arrive back and my ankle feels a bit more free. I do half an hour on the exercise bike and consider a walk in the outside world. I collapse down exhausted on the sofa instead with a mug of tea, order some new Asics trainers as recommended by the physio after she picked up my basic Hitec silver shadows and described what they didn’t do. £101 pounds later I have trainers that do do what she described. They may be the ultimate technological running shoe, but I expect it’ll still hurt to walk a mile in my shoes…