Dear Octopus,
You may have noticed that I haven't written to you in a while. I was indisposed, and apologise profusely. Nothing too major, you may or may not be pleased to hear, merely a sprained ankle acquired in the pursuit of a well-groomed hedge.
I say 'nothing major'........it was totally major.
Because - as I found out - spraining your ankle is not your average, quotidian injury. In fact it's what I've come to call an Absolutely Unmitigated Disaster. People think that a sprain is akin to a pulled muscle or stubbed toe; a loose, vague ailment with little lasting discomfort or inconvenience. It couldn't be further from the truth. It was totally inconvenient for me.
I'll skip the actual wounding. That grim, sickeningly vile moment when I fell from the bench and into the herb patch, clutching my foot and hyperventilating 'Pongo...fuck Pongo...fucking hell mate...this is not fucking good mate...' while he stood and recalled with wistfully smiling nostalgia the incident where he saw his friend stab himself in the heel with a large garden fork. It's too emotionally and physically excruciating to contemplate, let alone casually retell in the worldwide digital webisphere. Dutch and Honksy very kindly transported me to the Accident & Emergency department of the lovely St. George's Hospital in the thoroughly un-lovely Tooting, and even bought me a dirty magazine and an ice cream in order to buoy my ailing temperament. (I watched Downton Abbey on the waiting area's television set and ate the ice cream, while they perused the dirty magazine.)
I was wheeled up to be examined, down to x-ray, then wheeled back up again to be handed my crutches and told to keep off said offending ankle for 48 hours. Simple.
Not simple. The worst part of being on crutches is the preparation. Nothing is easy. Getting up or downstairs to and/or from my bedroom - three flights no less - goes from a jaunty eleven-second dash to a seven-minute pain-marathon. So essentially you can't go anywhere without planning exactly what you'll need, because any possibility that you might have to come back for something alludes to another fourteen long minutes of Japanese torture. Or, more pertinently, once you're there you're stuck with what you have.
By the second day I was writing a list and then packing a rucksack just to go downstairs. Having no meaningful capacity for carrying, my meals consisted of foods that could be made and then put in the rucksack for the trip from the kitchen back to the sofa. There aren't many. But worst of all was the boredom. There is only so much television a man can watch before his thirst for life is quenched entirely! What of the trees, the sky, birds singing their maniacal pop songs from next door's partially-caved-in chimney flue! What of work, human interaction, the happy discourse of friends' muted concern!
(Plus we don't have Sky.)
Don't ever sprain your ankle little one. But more on my recovery next time.
By the way I saw Bon Iver last night, at Hammersmith Apollo. It was amazing. I did spare a thought for you, and how my last real memory of you is us talking about how strange it would be to finally see them together. Well, I saw them. So I spared you a thought.
Just one though. Dwelling on the past is not conducive to goodness.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
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