Things # 2

As I draw ever closer to the frightening monster that is Going Back To Work On Monday, I'm trying to switch on all my positive thoughts to make it a less harrowing experience. To that end, I'm doing away (at least for a day or two) with my Room 101 obsession, and concentrating instead on the many things that make me happy. So without further beating around the proverbial, here are a few of my favourite things:

The few occasions I lie in
Swindon Town
Fish pie
Nurses
Steven Gerrard
The AA
Stephen Fry
Sing-a-longs, including banjos
Weekend newspapers (well, The Observer and The Guardian at least)
Physiotherapists
The Office Christmas special when Dawn and Tim get together and Brent tells Chris Finch to fuck off
Badgers
Guinness
The Black Swan
Porridge
Watching / playing for / drinking with Union Street FC
Single malt whisky
Not being at work
The A420
White Horse Hill
Munching Italian food, drinking wine and getting merry in Italy on a warm summer evenin
Communigate
Yorkshire puddings
Jonathan Winkler
The Thames
Friendly Germans at the DAM
Funny beards
My new friends at Test Match Special

Oh well, I couldn't resist it, a few more things I don't like:
Standard lower league footballers' haircuts, with dyed bits, quiffy bits, and idiot bits
Noel Edmonds
Bridget Jones' Diary
Sex In The City
Harry Potter
Wind
Mild winters
Women wearing suits with shorts
Tattoos

Roads

Blimey, windy innit? Just the sort of day you wanna go down the A420 and get stuck behind a swaying lorry, I shouldn't wonder. Ah, the A420. Where would Swindon be without it? The best thing to come out of Oxford, ha ha. Home of Shrivenham, Kingston Bagpuize and the Botley Interchange. Not forgetting, of course, a rather far-off view of the White Horse at Uffington (incidentally, one of my top five places in the universe - I'll be sure to tell you the other four at some point).

Where was I? Oh yes, on my way to Oxford for my physio appointment, two weeks after my ACL operation. I'd almost forgotten why I was writing this blog, for a moment. The appointment passed without comment, save a few expletives from my Dad about the A34 (which would lose hands-down to the 420 in a Battle Of The A Roads), and some soothing words from the physiotherapist.

She (physios are always a she, it seems, not that I'm complaining - softer hands, you see) gave me some more exercises (some like these, but nothing quite as fun as this alas), which mostly involved balancing a bit, stretching my leg / hamstring / knee much more than I'd like, and one which involves getting a big bottle and putting it under your knee and pressing down til you yelp. The physio said I had lovely calves, and was impressed with how far back my good leg went. Always useful, I find.

She said I could do some gentle swimming (I refrained from telling her that swimming is satan's physiotherapy). She also said I could do some upper-body weights down the gym if I wanted, go for a bit of a walk, and generally stop being quite so much of a loaf. Apparently, it's twisting the leg that I need to avoid (presumably so that the new ligament doesn't twist off), but straight leg movements are dandy. The knee is still a bit swollen, so I need to keep it raised and iced, and try to do these new exercises three times a day. That should be fun.

I don't know why I'm boring you with all this detail, but there's bugger all else to tell you. Oh, I've shaved my beard off, so I'm officially a beard-wuss. I think there's a critical stage in beard growth where the itchyness / gingerness / twattishness is at its peak - if you can get through it, you'll be the proud owner of a distinguished, non-twatty, non-itchy, nice-coloured beard. Alas, I gave up. I couldn't stand looking like Mr Twit any longer. Beards are for Christians and ale-drinkers, anyway.

But all is not lost, my hair gets more MAHOOSIVE by the day. It's at least two-foot tall, now. With my new poncey tweed jacket, I could fit in at Oxford Brookes University easily. I might even get a student discount on my train fare. Worth a shot, surely?