The Interview

What can I say? I only have myself to blame. They were both decent, fair and kind. They did exactly what they were supposed to do. There were no surprises. Attentive and smiling. Gave me every opportunity. And I completely and utterly blew it.

Today I had an interview for another job. I went to Physio first. Then two meetings back to back. Then jumped in a taxi. Arrived early. Walked into the room smiling. Did (I think) a good presentation. And then fell apart. Rambled. Strayed off the point. Didn't sell myself.

I will find out next week. While I'm in Spain. But its pretty obvious already. I wouldn't hire me - so why would someone else? Can I blame my accident for this? Hard to say. I'd like to, but it may just be an excuse. I have missed out on jobs before. But never performed as badly as this. Strange how an incident nine months ago can start affecting other life chances. Wonder how long it will take, if ever, to get back to normal.

In the meantime, my colleague and friend fell off his bike today on his way to work and broke both his elbows. Dog ran out in front of him apparently. Pitched straight over his handlebars. Sometimes there is simply no justice.

Paying the price

Meanwhile, back at St John's clinic last week, I was told I would need another two operations on my skin graft. In essence these are cosmetic, although the results should also allow me to wear socks without a slit down the side. I should also be able to get into a normal wetsuit. The idea is to debulk the graft using liposuction and then, some weeks later, reduce the skin to fit. There is, of course, a small risk of infection from each procedure. My consultant assures me that the team will do everything they can to avoid this. Good. However, we cannot proceed with this until I get the all clear from my orthopedic consultant at ERI. This appointment is booked for Tuesday. Perhaps optimistically, I am booked back into the plastic surgery clinic in November. All being well, I will have the surgery at the end of the year.

In the meantime, I am paying a significant price from gallivanting around the beach yesterday without a stick. Hauling the boat up and down the sand didn't seem an issue at the time. It certainly is now. Putting too much weight through my ankle has resulted in extreme pain - even 24 hours later. Probably not helped by wearing the little rubber boots without orthotics. Its a strange thing the stick. I carry it along, a bit like a pet, without realising what it actually does. A few short trips without it round the office - no problem. But constant weight over distances (particularly without my special insoles) is not yet possible. This is frustrating and disappointing. And there's no end in sight. My stick will continue to be a bit of a pet for some time to come.

Open Water

I had the idea when the new sailing club opened 20 metres from my bedroom window. If you can't stop them - join them. And if you cant do the things you used to do because of a gammy leg, then do new things. So - I decided to become a sailor. And to become a sailor at Porty Boat Club - you need your own boat. This is not as easy it as sounds. You cant just pop down to Scotmid and pick up a dinghy.

First you have to decide what kind. And your choice somewhat narrows when you realise that you have to get the boat down the beach to the water - there is no jetty, no marina. And if there is no one around to help - you have to do it yourself. And do you buy a single hander or a double hander? Because it seems that there isn't really a lightweight boat that will do both. Is it more fun to sail alone - or with a friend? And what about attaching an outboard? Or fishing? What about maintenance? Insurance? I search the Internet. Call a distant cousin who happens to be the Commodore (yes!) of a yacht club on the West Coast.

And during all the this frantic effort, a vague unease that I might not be physically up to, it my leg might not hold up, my knee too sore.. Meanwhile the search goes on. The budget rises. And then falls when HR refuses to buy out my leave. And then, how lucky am I, I meet an avid dinghy sailor who is a member of a club a couple of miles down the road. A club that has dinghies for use by members. A club that has a bar, and changing rooms, and lots of kit. A club, in other words, that is infinitely better than the one outside my bedroom window.

And this is how I ended up out on the open water in the Forth crammed onto a Pico with a friend. In a borrowed shorty wetsuit, soft black rubber boots, my skin graft open to the elements. Soaking up salty spray. Laughing and whooping. An anxious hand on the tiller. Cautious jibes and more confident tacks. Heading rapidly out to Fife, unaware that the rescue boat was never launched due to engine failure.

Back on the beach an hour later we are triumphant. De-rig and drag the boat back up the beach to the club house. Hand in my membership cheque and hose down my kit. Big smiles and aching foot. Home on the bus with my salty hair and a firm grasp of my stick. I am, officially, a sailor.