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.

Just call me one stick

Vertigo was the last thing on my mind. But the first time I headed to the local shop with just one stick it wasn't the pain that threw me - but a strange feeling of imbalance. My head hurt, I felt sick - and I badly wanted to sit down. Unfortunately the rather handy bench in the post office has been removed. There's no rest, literally, for the wicked. These symptoms didn't occur over short distances. And they didn't last more than a few days. But they were extremely unpleasant. And very unexpected.

Since my promotion to one stick I have organised and attended The Big Lunch, been to an awards dinner in Park Lane, mastered escalators, braved the London Tube, taken a couple of four hour train rides, test ridden three fold up bikes on a (quiet) street, been trapped in a hotel shower (the tray was too high for my inflexible ankle) and taken on a new set of physio exercises. I've had a Mexican couch surfer to stay, practiced my Spanish and completed full weeks at work without collapsing at the weekends. I've harvested my radishes, planted more seeds and booked a sailing holiday round the West Coast for September.

Much of this has involved varying levels of pain or discomfort. But the exhaustion is, thank God, diminishing. The physio is harder, and keeping motivated, a struggle. My right knee continues to be problematic - preventing any real exercise beyond a dozen lengths of the pool. But walking off without my stick (left in the corner of a bar, or at the back of a meeting room) is becoming increasingly common. I like to think that this is nothing to do with short term memory loss - and everything to do with not needing the sodding thing for much longer.

Go Fast Pink

I used to have two bikes. A little blue cutie and a go fast pink one. Now I'm down to one. The Pink one. It's not a practical bike. 7.5kgs of unadulterated streamlined design. Made by a superpower with arsenals of weapons of mass destruction. It's not for pottering round town. Or learning to ride again after an accident. It cant be left locked to a railing. Or leant up against a shop window just for a minute. Its tiny rims are unforgiving. Its white flowery seat torture on an untrained bum. No mudguards or carriers. No chain guard. Not even a pretty little bell.

This pink bike has been hanging sadly on the wall for eight months. Two flat tyres, a split tube, grey dust on its carbon fibre forks. Until today that is. A long hobble to the bike shop. Handing over £18 for a new tyre. Hauling stuff out of cupboards to find tyre levers and pump. A generous pal putting it all together. And carrying it downstairs.

Riding the pink bike turns out to be the easiest part. Getting on and stopping is much more challenging. Drop handlebars and tiny peddles don't help. Cycling is technically banned on the Promenade. But an army of police officers wont get me onto the road. Not yet anyway. Especially since they are half the reason I'm in this predicament. Its quite enough contending with the prams, scooters, toddlers, dogs, and gangs of half dressed teenagers. I weave in and out of them, breathless with nerves.

Once past the ice cream crowds, we cycle sedately down to the end of the Promenade. Feels great. Normal even. Breeze in my hair (because of course I'm not wearing a helmet). I'd like to speed up but I'm terrified of falling and damaging my graft. My knee is fine. My foot hurts - but no more than usual. We stop at the end, rest a bit, gaze out to sea and return. Stopping is tricky. Pushing my weight through my right foot is uncomfortable and uncertain. Emergency stops clearly out of the question. Walking off the Prom with the bike for a few metres much more difficult than pedalling it.

So cycling, it appears, is going to be much easier than walking. Certainly in the medium term. I cant off course get a bike up and down the stairs myself. Nor can I cycle up anytihing steep. My nerves are still dodgy and there's the stop start thing. But still, I reckon I'll be pedalling to work by late Autumn. And maybe even on my go fast pink bike.

Back on the treddlie

I'd been plotting it for a while. Waiting til my knee stopped twinging. Testing my nerves on the train trip. Finding a place with no trucks. Borrowing a bike from a colleague. Hobbling down to the office car park at lunch time. A sea of cars. Bright sun. A mountain bike with slick tyres, SPD pedals and several inches too small. Wrong shoes. Rolled up right trouser leg. Skin graft exposed. Put down the sticks. Climb onto the bike. And I'm off. Shaking hands. Looking for trucks. Leg and ankle fine. No pain. No trucks. Racing heart. Do a few circuits. My colleague as a witness. Smiling. Still the racing heart. Dare not change gear for fear of falling. And cruise to gentle stop. Safe.

Back in the office my momentous moment goes largely unnoticed. Sit back down at the computer. And carry on. Friday afternoon. Too much to do. And too many days to count - but its nearly eight months. Only 100 metres pedalled. But every pedal counts. Today the car park. Next week the Prom. After that, a new bike of my own. Meanwhile my foot hurt so badly that I passed up the physio. An uncomfortable reminder that there's still rather a long way to go.

A wee trip out

Its launch day. After months of preparation. Long days and late nights. Researching and writing and editing. Meetings and negotiations. Missing my physio sessions. Checking and cross checking. Shouting last minute instructions. Printing and publishing deadlines. Press releases and speeches. My whole focus since returning to work. Now just the conference to get through. The conference, however, is not in my home town. Its an hour's train ride away. I don't give it a second thought. I'll just get a taxi to the station. Hop on the train. Then hobble a couple of hundred metres to the conference centre. Need to leave home around 7.30 am. And return around 12 hours later.

Yeah... Whatever....

I was OK in the taxi. Early at the station so bought a coffee. Couldn't really carry it so drank it too fast, too hot. Boarded the train and sat, ironically, in the bike area. Plenty of leg room. Picked up my papers and started reading. Train left the station. Then the strangest of things. My hands started shaking. My heartbeat increased. I was dreadfully tired. I couldn't focus. I was afraid. But afraid of what? Leaving the city? The train? the conference? These things were part of my normal life blood. Nothing to worry about. Wasn't even speaking at the conference. Arriving was no better. Struggled out of the train. The crowds were too close and too rude. The distance to the exit seemed ridiculously far. Hobbling out in the heat of the city. Meeting a couple of colleagues. Facing the twenty steps up to the entrance of the concert hall. Lurching into the centre. Far too many stairs and not a lift in sight,

Telling the story once more a thousand times. To colleagues not seen for months. To strangers. To people I vaguely recognised and to apparent strangers who claimed they knew me. My voice started trembling. It was far too much. I sat in the back. But I had things to do. People to meet. Speakers to thank. Food to eat and later, wine to drink.

Back on the 6pm train my legs wobbled and my concentration faded. I couldn't catch my words. I could barely stagger to the waiting taxi to take me home. The conference was a success. My colleagues tired and happy. And I, seven months after being under a truck, was totally fucked.