Regular readers will be aware that I am, for the time being, living in Amsterdam and working in a job. Because I do not want to look like a tourist, I own a second-hand bike that carries me about the place, as that is what you do when you live in Amsterdam and want to blend in. (You also wear clogs all day and carry bunches of tulips. This is the absolute truth.)
But I am not Dutch! I was not born in one of the carts that Dutch children are bicycled around in; I was not brought up on the back of a tricycle; I never amused myself by balancing on friends' handlebars and I cannot ride my bicycle with one hand whilst juggling, weaving in and out of bollards and adjusting my headphones, as the Dutch can. (The last time I rode a bicycle properly was 1987, when the fastest route to school involved cycling round Hammersmith Broadway. "Did you cycle round Hammersmith Broadway today?", Monkeymother would ask, shining a pocket torch in my eyes. "No!", I would yelp. "You are lying!", she would then shriek, before beating me to a pulp with a rolled up copy of The Independent.)
I am therefore cautious on my bicycle. I indicate with my arms to show the other bicyclists where I am going; cars frighten me, despite the fact that I KNOW that they are more scared of people on bicycles than we are of them. (It is something to do with the law here: even if a bicyclist rides into your parked car whilst looking you in the eye and and pointing at the bonnet they have directed their front wheel at, you will be blamed and subsequently executed.)
But not cautious enough, it appears. For on Tuesday evening I was bicycling home and a car growled behind me. I swerved and fell; had you seen the incident from a long away, you might have mistaken me for an elephant tumbling off a unicycle. Two kind men appeared through a window. "Are you OK? We will pick up the bike for you and brush it down! Nothing is broken, yes? Please twist about your ankle this way and that for us to make sure." And then they sent me home. "Have a nice evening!", they said, as the nice Dutch people do sometimes.
It isn't broken, but the usual things apply.
Bad things about spraining your ankle:
1. Immobile. Unable to walk, cycle or move much
2. Hot swelling, strange scab; looseness that implies something fleshy has snapped
3. Bed sores
4. Concern that will not be able to visit pathologist in case leg explodes in the air
5. Cry with vile self-pity when nice lady gives me hug**
Good things about spraining your ankle:
1. Immobile. Unable to walk, cycle or move very much.
2. Hot swelling, strange scab
3. Looked after like stupid dog by nice people in office
4. Driven to and from work by a tiny Dutchman called Ralph
5. Drugs
6. Bruise that makes people scream like girls, even if they see it in a photograph:
Please note: this is the censored version. The full show includes a hole the size of a 50p piece - and many more besides!
Anyway, if that's made you feel sick, here's a picture of the work dog sitting on my work computer on my work desk:
And if that hasn't helped, maybe you could put your mind to the following conundrum: at what point did The Quality Hotel in Altrincham (not 'quality', by any means; "Any chance of a double bed?" "No.") think that this looked like a good deal?
* Visitors to Amsterdam: GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY OF BIKES, you CRETINS.
** A very bad word. Like 'cuddle', it gives a pleasant thing thing a very, very bad name.
But I am not Dutch! I was not born in one of the carts that Dutch children are bicycled around in; I was not brought up on the back of a tricycle; I never amused myself by balancing on friends' handlebars and I cannot ride my bicycle with one hand whilst juggling, weaving in and out of bollards and adjusting my headphones, as the Dutch can. (The last time I rode a bicycle properly was 1987, when the fastest route to school involved cycling round Hammersmith Broadway. "Did you cycle round Hammersmith Broadway today?", Monkeymother would ask, shining a pocket torch in my eyes. "No!", I would yelp. "You are lying!", she would then shriek, before beating me to a pulp with a rolled up copy of The Independent.)
I am therefore cautious on my bicycle. I indicate with my arms to show the other bicyclists where I am going; cars frighten me, despite the fact that I KNOW that they are more scared of people on bicycles than we are of them. (It is something to do with the law here: even if a bicyclist rides into your parked car whilst looking you in the eye and and pointing at the bonnet they have directed their front wheel at, you will be blamed and subsequently executed.)
But not cautious enough, it appears. For on Tuesday evening I was bicycling home and a car growled behind me. I swerved and fell; had you seen the incident from a long away, you might have mistaken me for an elephant tumbling off a unicycle. Two kind men appeared through a window. "Are you OK? We will pick up the bike for you and brush it down! Nothing is broken, yes? Please twist about your ankle this way and that for us to make sure." And then they sent me home. "Have a nice evening!", they said, as the nice Dutch people do sometimes.
It isn't broken, but the usual things apply.
Bad things about spraining your ankle:
1. Immobile. Unable to walk, cycle or move much
2. Hot swelling, strange scab; looseness that implies something fleshy has snapped
3. Bed sores
4. Concern that will not be able to visit pathologist in case leg explodes in the air
5. Cry with vile self-pity when nice lady gives me hug**
Good things about spraining your ankle:
1. Immobile. Unable to walk, cycle or move very much.
2. Hot swelling, strange scab
3. Looked after like stupid dog by nice people in office
4. Driven to and from work by a tiny Dutchman called Ralph
5. Drugs
6. Bruise that makes people scream like girls, even if they see it in a photograph:
Please note: this is the censored version. The full show includes a hole the size of a 50p piece - and many more besides!
Anyway, if that's made you feel sick, here's a picture of the work dog sitting on my work computer on my work desk:
And if that hasn't helped, maybe you could put your mind to the following conundrum: at what point did The Quality Hotel in Altrincham (not 'quality', by any means; "Any chance of a double bed?" "No.") think that this looked like a good deal?
* Visitors to Amsterdam: GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY OF BIKES, you CRETINS.
** A very bad word. Like 'cuddle', it gives a pleasant thing thing a very, very bad name.
27 comments:
OUCH!! :-(
Arnica 30
Though possibly it is too late - Ledum perhaps.
oh gosh that looks awful. hope it heals well.
mine's worse. FACT.
Wouldn't be a bad idea to get that x-ray'd if you have time and oportunity, looks nasty. Hope it feels better soon.
Ow! Ow! How are you supposed to get your clogs on over that?
Hugs. I mean cuddles. I mean oh, sod it. Get well soon, brave little monkey!
I once fell backwards off a disused Camden Market table whilst extremely drunk and the resulting bruise was at least four hundred times bigger than that, and turned many different miraculous colours before finally fading from the inside out.
Er, but sympathy, obviously. I wish you better enough to not be in excruciating pain, yet not so better that people stop doing stuff for you. It's a difficult line to tread.
(Memo to self: quell insanely competitive instincts when friends are in pain.)
Dear NWM, rather high adventure rate at the mo - don't you think? Very scary story. I'm glad they are taking care of you. Get better soon!
OWCH! That looks badly bruised.
Twisted ankle you said, looks more like a car wheel ran over it, aided of course, by a car driving cretin. OWCH again!
Also, elevate the foot by placing a pillow under the matress. Yes, at the foot end of the bed. Better still, get someone else to do it. Possibly someone from Canada ...
Forget creams, ice and all that namby-pamby stuff. Clearly, the way to go is amputation.
Let there be no misunderstanding here: the ENTIRE FOOT, and LOWER PORTION OF MY CALF, is pale blue. This means the ENTIRE THING will be black before long, and I will look like I have gangrene.
Oh yes.
If you wear a cheap cotton skirt that does not quite fit you, thus exposing your gangrenous leg for all to see, and mutter as you hobble (while not clutching a bunch of tulips) I can guarantee that people will not get in your way any more.
A wide berth, they will give.
(Oh, and take Arnica of course. 'Tis marvelous.)
I was eating marmite on toast when I saw your injury shot. Put me right off.
Get well soon...
Blimey, that looks nasty! I do have fond memories of a time in Amsterdam when a bike-riding lady (whose bell, presumably, was inoperative) came flying up behind us shouting "RING, RING!" at the top of her voice ...
I vote too for putting arnica cream on it - handfuls of it, in your case - it's not too late, and you will marvel at the effect.
Now, about the dog ... it's hair, to be exact: is it a shedding variety of dog? Pet hair in computer processor = fan breaks.
Argh - I can't believe I used a greengrocer's apostrophe.
i have duly screamed like a great big girl.
why a hole? have you got a cut as well?
have you got a bandage on it now? and if not, why not?
please look after yourself, little monkey.
btw - i sprained my ankle a bit like that a while ago (obviously not so badly, though) and one of the things they made me do in physio was to balance on a wobble board, cos the feedback from the nerves that tell your brain where your foot is (work with me - it was a while ago) gets all jangled. maybe you'll need to do that when it gets a bit better.
That looks brilliant. But they make you go to work? The fiends!
Terribly jealous. I had a Very Dramatic Bike Incident (only mine was in a forest with trees and roots and things) which resulted in a Truly Disgusting But Quite Impressive Bruise and I had no blog! What's the point of injuring yourself nicely if you can't share it with the internet? Damn.
I would pay 15 quid for a lie-in if I could afford it! Ihate the way they make you get out of bed in the morning at hotels.
Your ankle photo looks particularly bad if one has one's brain screwed in back to front and somehow manage to convince oneself that it is the other way round, that the toes are in fact the bottom of your leg, and that the foot itself is a grossly enormously swollen thing attached to an emaciated shin.
Ow, Ow, Ow, Ow Ow ! Spring has arrived in Canada. You will therefore be required to make all trips through the city by caleche, or Spyder, if you prefer. Both are for hire here.
More later but - TEA AND CAKE. THE PILLOWS UNDER THE MATTRESS ARE BRILLIANT. THANK YOU VERY VERY VERY VERY MUCH.
NWM - you are very Welcome!
I did something like that in Surrey - people laughed as they walked past. That is it, I am off to Holland. Sorry to say this but the little animal on the PC looks less like a dog, and much more like Ricky Gervais' wig in "Extras" - what a dismal letdown THAT programme is..
I broke my ankle a few years ago, not by falling off my bike by any means!! But it turned all the shades of the rainbow before the bruising went away, and my toes even bruised. Who knew?
arnica, by all means. if the hole bothers you, try soaking your foot in epsom salts.
with deep sympathy. also, liquid tylenol, cherry-flavored, is very nice.
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