Running

A week of relative domestic calm after Sarah ran the marathon last weekend. Not only did she manage it in 4.46.59 – best rounded down, I am assured – but she was less stiff the next day than I was, having had to spend all day trotting around London with the kids. Thoroughly impressive/annoying all round. And, despite having spent two hours on Tower Bridge cheering on sweaty runners dressed as bakewell tarts, I am still in the bad books over the whole business, as we managed to miss seeing Sarah, and technical difficulties meant that I didn’t manage to get around to sponsoring her myself. Despite the lack of Brownie points though, I am still very impressed and proud of her. Even though I am still sure she started her running hobby weeks after my accident just to rub things in.

William has been doing some running too. We went for a picnic yesterday in the salubrious setting of South Norwood Country Park. I’m not sure if a patch of grass between Tesco’s, a pair of tram tracks and an athletics stadium truly qualifies as the country, but by South London standards, it does a good job. While we were doing our best to tuck into our cream buns, William was determined to fully explore the mountaineering possibilities afforded by the hillock that passes for South Norwood’s highest point. He was a little confused by the fact that he hasn’t figured out the difference between up and down, but that didn’t stop him toddling as far up the slope as he could get, then hurtling down, entirely out of control, and playing Russian roulette with the smashed glass that littered the path. He was having a wonderful time. “William’s having fun!” he told us. Unfortunately, Daddy had to follow, hobbling desperately down the hill, looking for all the world like a confused entrant to a three legged race. The William/Daddy combination must cut a fairly impressive dash these days.

This is going to be an important week for William. It throws my own growing relationship with the orthopaedics community of South London into some sort of relief when you are invited to Birmingham children’s hospital to discuss the possibilities of an intestinal transplant for your son. These are extremely rare, and extremely dangerous operations. I’m not sure it will be right for the boy, as we are yet to be told why it might work. I think a degree of scepticism is essential though, as there is nothing more dangerous than imagining that a huge operation is the way forward, simply because it is something that can be done. This is, perhaps, one of the reasons for this Friday’s meeting. It is going to be a very nervous trip down the M40.

At least we should be able to make the trip with me at the steering wheel. My hand is getting better very quickly, I am pleased to report, and two Velcro straps on my fingers are now the only visible sign of the mishap. It looks entirely likely that I will have had the time to break my hand and make a complete recovery in the space between two routine appointments for my leg. It tells you something when you attend a ‘hand therapy’ session, and find your therapists crowded around an x-ray of your leg, making impressed noises. There are still a few things that I can’t do with my hand, though. As one of these things is the washing up, I am actually quite disposed to enjoying this injury. However, as I had to point out to a trainee therapist who was busy ticking the relevant boxes on a form describing my hand injury, just because I meant to hit the furniture, does not mean that it was an example of ‘deliberate self-harm’. Unless, of course, the DSH box stood for ‘deliberate sofa harm’. I’m guessing it didn’t.