“Don’t run in the dark!” my mum said.
“Don’t run in the rain!” my friend said.
“Wear the dickhead lamp!” husband said (miner’s head lamp).
Did I listen to any of this really good and actually really sensible, brilliant advice? Did I? DID I?! Did I hell.
I ran in the dark and the rain, with no dickhead lamp lighting my trecherous path and I fell into a big hole and my foot went one way and my leg went the other. Normally incredibly vain (I wear full make up to run, especially in the dark – those pesky car headlights light up my massive ginger face like it’s the moon), I could have quite easily vomitted on the spot and not given a rats who saw me chunder my guts.
Dry heaving over a fence (of the house that always smells of pot as I run past. Every single day) and using words which would make even Madonna blush, a car pulls up next to me. Typically British, I stop swearing to myself and apologise for blocking his drive. Obviously 100% aware he is offering a strange woman a lift and obviously terrified he might seem like a wrong ‘un, he tells me that he and HIS DAUGHTER *points vigourously to his daughter sat in the back of the car* saw me fall over and offers me a lift. And without hesitating, I did something I always tell people NEVER TO DO. I accepted a lift from a stranger. Luckily it was the posh family from the massive house on our lane and not a serial killer.
This can’t be happening, I think. I AM DANCING ON CARS ON MONDAY! I think. I have plans! I need to keep running to lose more weight! I CAN’T BE FAT AND HOBBLING ABOUT ON A CAR ROOF! I AM NOT IN AN EPISODE OF BOOZE BRITAIN!
In typical British middle class style, which disgusts me even as I engage in it, I try and down play the whole thing and create some “chit chat” on the car journey as I cradle my ankle and try not to spew on his leather upholstery.
“Goodness me! Doesn’t it get dark early these days!”
He 100% joins in, which of course he would do, being posher than the Queen.
“It’s the street lights” he says “They are turning them off! To save money! This government, I tell you!”
“Mmmm oh yes!” I say, biting my lip to try and stop myself from sobbing like a baby. “Just awful!”
And such a true British gent he drives me right up to my front door, quite literally, bumper to bumper with my car on the drive until he can go no further. People are kind aren’t they? In a world of horrific news features, miserable old farts in the supermarkets and Sharon Osbourne there are some really nice people out there.
I think about this as I fall through the front door.
“Wott you daaaaan, mameeee?” says Alex casually strolling out of the lounge. (He speaks in this odd little chinese accent. I have taken to holding him up and saying
“Anyone order a Chinese?!” like Chinese Alan does on Gavin and Stacey.)
“Mummy has hurt her foot a little bit. It’s all fine though!” *shrill voice* “ALL FINE!”
I have decided to be in complete denial about the whole thing. It is only a little twist. Not a sprain. Not a break. Just a twist. A tiny teeny twist. I will simply power on through and ignore the burning sensation and shooting stabby pains. I will keep moving despite the feeling of being stabbed with a red hot poker. Channel my zen and become immune to pain. I will just walk on it anyway and in a few days start running again. Like a Terminator.
I stifle a sob. It really hurts.
“I think I am going in to shock” I say to Smudge as I huddle under a blanket, shivering.
“Get a grip, Hannah” he says “You are just wet from your massive nose dive in to a dirty puddle.” as he points at my wet compression trousers and high viz jacket. I try to get undressed whilst the boys offer to “help me” by kissing my foot better (NO!) and clamber about over me on the sofa offering cuddles (FOR GOD’S SAKE NO!!!!) and head strokes (GET OFF ME NOW!!!!).
Smudge is ace and drags the boys in to the kitchen for their dinner. It takes a good five minutes before I realise that I am alone in the lounge watching Waybuloos. The remote is on the second sofa and about 16 feet away. (Feet, I think. It’s like everything to do with “feet” is tormenting me).
“SMUDGE!” I bellow
“Yes?” he says coming in
“Please can you change the TV channel?” I say, pointing at the horrible, illuminous creatures on the telly talking in baby voices.
“How funny!” he chuckles “I was about to do just that!”
Ah. God love him.
And he puts on this
and walks back out the room.
I curse him.
I consider chewing off my foot at the bad ankle so I have something to throw at the TV in disgust. But luckily before I have to do this a child wanders in to the lounge, like a wobbly drunk, fed and stuffed on dinner and pudding.
“Could you pass mummy the remote please darling?”
“Ooooh!” says child, passing me the telly stick “For Waybuloos?!”
“Not a chance” I say, firmly pressing BBC1. It’s Strictly time.
Of course I spend a lot of my evening moaning and b*tching about my injury on social networking sites. That’s a given. I get a lot of p*ss takes (Twitter) and a lot of “poor you’s” (Facebook). A friend who used to be an endurance officer in the army said the best thing to do is to keep my ankle moving. So I hobbled to the fridge for a top up of my wine. And I think about how I am now totally regretting turning down the random review request from Deep Heat and Deep Freeze which landed in my email inbox last week.
“How on earth would I create a blog around Deep Heat?” I said to my husband, smiling and with a little chuckle and eye roll.
Well, this *waves hands over blog post* would have been ripe for it. Dammit! I know now how Jesus cured the lame. He put a Deep Freeze patch on their ankles.
Because I was brought up proper and know my P’s and Q’s I take a box of chocolates round to the posh house on our lane where my saviour lives. Armed with a box of Roses chocolates I ring the doorbell, and something happens which totally throws me and me perfectly scripted thank you speech. His wife answers.
“Yes?” she says looking blankly at me.
“Yes?” she says again, because it has been five seconds and I have just been staring at her.
“Oh! Erm! Your husband picked me up last night!” (Picked. Me. Up?!)
She looks a bit shocked. Then a bit angry.
“And, er, these are to say thank you!” as I thrust the chocolates at her.
She looks confused.
“I fell over. I was running. I was on a run! And I fell in a hole and he took me back to my house!”
“Oh right” she says. “Er. Great. Thanks. Take care then. Bye.”
And she shuts the door…
I like a bit of drama, me. I adore a song and dance and am always being accused of being OTT by Smudge. I sort of thought the least I would have got was a hug. Maybe a new best friend. Maybe an invitation to holiday with them next year at their villa in Italy…
So there we have it. I am hoping by tomorrow I am able to dance on the roof of a car without crying and shrieking as if I am walking on barbed wire because, quite frankly, I prematurely told every single person I know in the world about this advert and I don’t want to end up looking like a tit because my gammy ankle meant we got cut from the final edit. Miracles can happen. Right?