We take three steps forward and 19 back. That’s the rule. 9 months after my cortisone injection in the shoulder and endless (seemingly, even though I’m not that good at actually doing it, but having the instructions counts, right?) physiotherapy, it was finally on the mend. Actually just a little ache in the mornings rather than the searing pain and immobility which had been the case before and for a good 6 months afterwards. And yes, I did play tennis, with ‘that’ shoulder, almost every weekend. Simply because a. its what I do, and b. I’m stupid. Ok, and c. I managed to eventually find a physio who approved.

One of the moves we were doing in tai chi on thursday night was a little painful. But what isn’t? Everything aches so much of the time that you can’t let a little discomfort affect what you do. So I ignored the slight after-effects, just forgot about them really and got on with a weekend full of extreme joys (Lila) and horrendous horrors (London Bridge). More tai chi on Saturday, then some tennis with the younger daughter, then Sunday a little more tennis with Spurs Paul until… until… until even I had to take note and stop. It wasn’t agony but it weren’t right. Stop, all will be fine. That’s the rule.

Until I woke up this morning. About 5 o’clock in fucking agony. Slowly eased myself out of bed to protect the shoulder and almost fell on the floor because my hip was so painful. It was like every tennis injury I’d ever had came like presents on Christmas morning. Things that had barely been a problem suddenly reminded me of their former glory. And I blame Nicola Sturgeon.

Because on Wednesday we’re going to Scotland. And that little, whingeing, leaving-UK-remaining-Euro, separationist bitch doesn’t want me there. She wants all that Scotch for herself. So she’s ensured I’m injured so Mel will have to drag the bags off the plane, load them into the horse-drawn carriage (cheaper than the Nissan at Hertz, Inverness) and carry me all around the roaming and gloaming. Through Loch and… and Ness and stuff. Across the land where Mel Gibson once trod, where all things come in batter, where the word ‘goalkeeper’ means something totally different and where the the sun disney set til midnight.

Its the highlands for me. And one of my shoulders at least.

Happy Monday

A xxxx