Orthotics

So, it's been, like, 12 weeks or something now, hasn't it? I'm sure you can tell me for certain. "What news?" I hear you cry. Well, the knee is as stiff as an ageing, arthritic badger. I get pains down the hamstrings every so often, and it stiffens up when I don't do my exercises. I've been down the gym a a few more times, doing a combination of cyclings, light joggings and cross trainings (incidentally, has anyone ever spent a significant amount of time on a cross trainer? It has to be the most pointless of all the pointless things in a gym). I'm doing weights, too. They're pointless, too.

I'd like to say I'm keeping trim, but I'm not. I'm getting a bulge, which I'd like to say is manly, but it's not. I'd also like to say I'm playing football next week, but I'm not. It's been frustrating watching the merry antics of my team of late. They have been, in a word, rubbish. But in many other ways, they've been beautiful. Oh, how I miss it. I miss getting thumped by mediocre teams. I miss hilarious defensive mishaps. I miss the idiot chopsy teenage opponents. I miss the gay banter in the showers. Oh woe is me.

Still, at least I'm keeping up with my circuits for cripples down the Nuffield. It's actually brought a worrying development in the injury-rollercoaster that is my life. You see, I have these feet. Yes, two of them. Flat as a pancake, they are. Some of the physios reckon that could be one of the reasons why I've had a few injuries in my time. But also, they've been giving me extra gip of their very own. You see, I have to do all this balancing on one leg as part of my exercises. It don't half cause me foot to hurt.

I talked to the physio woman, and she say I need to see orthotics. They're the feet people. Maybe they'll give me some orthotics. Maybe they'll get me do to some more exercises. Maybe they'll give me a gait analysis (I'd like someone to analyse my gait). Maybe this will put my rehabilitation back. All these maybes, eh? All this uncertainty. Oh woe.

Research

I did some market research for the Department of Transport tonight. I'd like to say it was fun, but it wasn't. And they only gave me a fiver for it. A very camp man called "Norman", who kept me calling me "love" or "my lovely", asked me a LOT of questions about possible traffic congeston charges in Oxford.

One of the scenarios was charging 20p for every mile I might drive within the ring road at peak times, as well as a £4 daily charge on top of that. That would work out at, like, £100 a month, apparently. Just to drive to work. That would get people cycling, and no mistake.

They also asked me to calculate how much it costs me to drive to work every day (in petrol, insurance, tax, wear and tear etc) and I was stumped. I'm useless at budgeting. Anyway, I hope I helped Norman with his planning. I think he fancied me. Understandable.

It's been a night for speaking to odd people on the phone. I've justed waited about half an hour to talk to some chap about my Orange contract. You see, I got a fancy, slimline phone last week (that I keep losing cos I'm used to having an old fashioned brick) from the Orange shop, but they wouldn't let me have a new tariff, telling me I had to phone the Orange people direct. So I phoned them, and they told me to go back to the shop. Hmf. It was like being 7 years old and being told to "ask your Mother".

You can tell I lead a fun life, what? Maybe I should resurrect my room 101s. I've thought of some more.
Dirty bars of soap.
People who leave muesli to go hard in the bowl.
Bourbons.
Girls who moan about the seat being left up.
Driving up very narrow roads with lines of cars either side, like Southfield Road, or Divinity Road.
Girls who moan about being cold.
Drivers and cyclists who don't indicate.
Leaving the top off the toothpaste (am I sounding like a sad old man yet?).
'Press red' instead of teletext.
Knee exercises.
People who blame having a cold on 'air conditioning'.
Lateness.
Laziness.
Tightness.
Angellica off Fame Academy.
Men who spend hours in gyms just sitting down and looking at TVs.

Go on then, gimme some more.

8 and a 1/2 weeks

Well, I'm at that tricky 8 and a 1/2 week mark. Well, actually, it's not tricky at all, just flippin boring. The knee is getting stronger all the time - and I've even started some light jogging (more like shuffling, but beggars - or a least people recovering from knee injuries - can't be choosers, I find), swimming and cycling. You see? The fun never stops when you've got a dodgy knee.

I went to my first physio gym class this morning, too. It's fun, man. Basically, about 16 palpably unfit people with 'lower limb' injuries, puff and wheeze their way around an assortment of exercises and stretches, all to a selection of mega hits CDs that always include 'Don't Stop Moving' by S Club 7. It's kind of like circuits for beginners, dude.

You do knee weight stretches, hamstring catches (it feels like my life is one long hamstring catch at the moment), jogging around cones, jumping over a skipping rope (woo hoo!), hopping on a trampet (which isn't actually a trumpet for tramps, alas), balancing on a wobble board, cycling on an ancient exercise bike, walking up and down some fake steps and, my least favourite, a totally pointless wobble-board-esque maze game, where you have to wiggle your feet to get a little red ball into the middle of a blue plastic maze, and out again (see pic).

Still, it's good for the knee, and that's what counts. I actually feel more confident at the moment than I thought I would. I still haven't got the full range of movement back (I do these pull-your-foot-to-your-bum quad stretches and I can't quite touch my bum but it's coming - I can feel it), but I'm running a bit, hopping and jumping around, and all in all what more could I ask for? Apart from turning out for the Street and banging in my first goal for the club, of course.

Incidentally, I've had some freakishly vivid dreams about doing just that. The dream goes something like this: Street are desperate for players, I turn up late to watch but get convinced to make an early come back. The results vary: either my knee collapses within 30 seconds, or I play a blinder at the back, jumping and diving (and fouling, of course) and we scrape a 1-0 win.

Last night's dream involved a Union Street trip to Argentina, where I was one of the designated drivers. We went to the town of 100 churches (does one even exist? I'd like to know), which was called Kirchen, naturally enough. Very Argentinian name, I thought. What could it all mean?