The Mosh Pit - The Wedding Present

Having my knee fixed was almost 100% inspired by my desire, need, to carry on playing football. I hadn't thought of anything else that the lack of an ACL would stop me doing, until last Friday.

I'm stuck in a time warp so my musical tastes have not changed since the 1980s, I'm sorry. One of my favourite bands is The Wedding Present*. Guitar and drums combining with heart breaking lyrics.

* http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wedding_Present

They're latest thing is to do a 21st anniversary tour of each album. Pre-injury I went to see the gig to celebrate this landmark for Bizarro. Post operation I saw that the Seamonsters tour was coming up. I emailed a couple of chums who, whilst they like some modern music, still have a place in their hearts and on their android phones for some of David Lewis Gedge's work.

Gedge is the only original member of the band, he writes all the music and lyrics, and is in effect The Wedding Present. The current line up has a lead guitarist from Hong Kong, a bassist from Scandinavia and a drummer from Southampton. The parts may have changed but the sound is still as good.

When I met with my chums in the pub next door to the Koko club I listened in whilst they talked about high finance and corporate affairs. We met in the 1980s working for the country's, if not the world's, leading credit checking firm. They have stayed in the same line of work and have successfully navigated the corporate world. I still like them both a lot, but often when we meet I sit there listening to them and don't have a clue what they're talking about.

Anyway, time moved on and we went in. We stood at the back of a packed house as The Weddoes came on. They went through a couple of new numbers and I was disinclined to force my way forward. It seemed rude to my chums and I was, as always, worried about the knee.

After the first few tunes, the guitars ushered in 'You Should Always Keep In Touch With Your Friends'. I had done this. We were there together and suddenly my legs were taking me to the front before my head could say no. In the old days, getting to the front was difficult, now it is easy. 95% of the audience are in their 40s and are ever so polite. A little tap on the shoulder and you're let by. Within a couple of seconds I was right at the front moshing away with 100 other 40-something, balding, sweaty men. Bliss.

The songs got faster, and slower and faster again as we moved as one. My knee held firm in spite of the jostling. All the while I was thinking what a great test this was of my rehabilitation. Star-excursion test eat your heart out.

When the final note was played, The Wedding Present never play encores so you always know that when it is over it is truly over, I turned and walked back to the lads feeling chuffed.

The next day I played a full half for my Saturday team, had a few big tackles and came away unscathed. The knee had passed what I think is the final test.  This Thursday is my last visit to the physio for the proper final sign off.

Full Return to Football

27th July 2011 - Paddington Rec - My left Anterior Cruciate Ligament (ACL) is ruptured in a viscous attack by a centre forward who is reckless beyond belief.

10th February 2012 - Chelsea and Westminster Hospital - My ACL is replaced by a piece of hamstring from my left leg.

17th November 2012 - 4pm - Firs Farm, Palmers Green - As player-manager of Mayfield 3s I get the referee's attention for a substitution and call the name of the player to come off. He jogs towards the touchline and I hand him my red Adidas hoodie and jog into right midfield.

476 days after a mindless Italian used my knee as a shortcut to the ball my football life restarts with ten minutes left of a game in the LOB Drummond Cup. Mayfield have just conceded to go 1-0 down in a match they should have been leading. A game in fact that they should have sewn up. The opposition, Oakhill Tigers are three divisions above Mayfield but we have made them look ordinary without actually putting the ball in the net.

I had hoped that my return would be at a point in the match when it didn't matter but life never follows the script you write in your head. We need a goal, in an ideal world I wouldn't have come on but the player I am replacing has looked knackered for the last ten minutes. Maybe if I had been braver and come on sooner we would not now be losing.

So here's my chance. A comeback and the possibility of being a hero.

The game, at all levels, looks simple from the side. I have spent the last 80 minutes looking on in dismay as error has followed error and we have thrown away a game we should be winning. Having kept my counsel for most of it at least I haven't been set up for a fall. A few minutes earlier I had sent another player back on with the words 'now is your chance to be a hero or a zero', I hear these words in my head now. It is the same for me although hero is more of a chance for me as I have arrived with us in deficit.

The game seems quicker now I am in the middle of it and as time passes I begin to think I won't ever get a touch of the ball. Eventually I do, and it's not good. My first touch is too hard, and the ball skips away out of possession. Slowly though I gain confidence, I'm still worried about having a major challenge and manage to avoid any such situations. A couple of neat passes and I'm in the game.

Then the moment comes. The chance to make a difference. I receive the ball with my back to goal but surrounded by defenders. I turn and beat one man, almost by accident. Another comes in for a challenge and I can't shoot but the ball bobbles off my shin towards the player who had come on just before me. He is six yards out with just the keeper to beat. It's his chance, our chance, to both be heroes but now my fate rests in his hands, or foot. He shoots, making good contact, but the ball goes to the one place where it won't be a goal, straight into the arms of the keeper. I can't quite believe he hasn't scored. Neither can he as he kneels in the mud, head in hands.

A minute later and I am on the shoulder of the last man, our Scottish beanpole has the ball 20 yards out, if he rolls it to me I am in on goal but he decides to shoot. His strike is solid, powerful even but again it goes straight at the keeper. It drifts in the air, on the way and the keeper only managers to parry it sideways, on to the goal line.

My first thought is that it is going to go in and although I could probably poke it over the line it would be unfair to take away my team mate's glory. This causes a momentary hesitation on my part and it is enough to ruin my day. The ball doesn't cross the line and me and the centre half hurtle towards the ball, he is an inch ahead of me and clears it off the line. I appeal in vain to the ref that it crossed over the line, over that line between glory and defeat, but I know I am lying. I know he won't relent. In my mind and my heart I know that the moment of hesitation has cost me the glory of pushing us into extra time. I'm disappointed in myself but then I realise that for those few intense seconds I wasn't thinking about my knee, I was concentrating purely on trying to score. Yes I failed to put the ball in the net but in that moment I won a bigger battle, a battle with my sub-concious. I don't smile, or celebrate this, but I do feel better about life.

I'm back and playing and that is all I have wanted for a year and half. We're out the cup but I am back in the game.

I played football...with other People

On 18 October 2012 finally, 8 1/2 months after my operation, I played a game of football with other people.

It was just a 7-a-side, but considering I haven't played for over a year I did ok and most importanly I came home under my own steam, on my bike.

My feelings before the game were  mixed, partially excitement, partially terrified. My fears included things such as would I hold up to it, would a tackle make my knee collapse as it had done the previous time I played. All through the day I was doing the exercises; stretching, warming up, the star excursion test. I even went to the gym in the morning, to do a few sprints and some interval training.

As the day went on my excitement was getting less and less and my fears getting more and more. There was even a point about 4 o'clock when I looked out the window and part of me hoped that it might be raining. That would allow me not to go, and still to save face having told everyone this was the day of the come back.

The day had actually started with a humorous incident. I was walking back from the gym with my hoodie on, it was quite cold and I was cold and sweaty and I didn't want to catch a cold. I was walking along when I heard someone behind me shout: "Oi sonny.". I didn't look round because I'm nearly 50 and only people who are older than me will call me sonny, so I carried on walking. A couple of seconds later he shouted again but this time slightly more aggressively: "Oi, son stop.".  Again I ignored it but a moment later I felt a hand on my shoulder, not aggressive but very firm, and obviously someone much taller than me. I stopped, and turned round. To my astonishment I was being towered over by a young copper, no older than 23 at best.

"Why didn't you stop when I called you?"

"I didn't think you were talking to me. Your voice sounded quite young I can hardly be your son."

I realised at this point that he was as surprised as I was. So I asked him what the problem was.

Replying straightfaced he said "You should know you're not allowed to wear your hood up in this area, there's notices everywhere." I shrugged not really understanding him, he continued, "I thought you were one of the hoodies from the estate, up to no good but now I see your middle-aged and unlikely to do anyone any harm. Sorry to trouble you sir." He turned away and carried on looking for ner-do-wells. I just felt a little insulted.

I got over it, but I couldn't get over the fear nagging away at me. About half an hour before kick off, it still wasn't raining and so I got my kit on. I clambered gingerly on to my bike and headed off for the game.

On arrival it was heartwarming to see all the old faces running up to welcome me back. I wanted to chat to them all, find out what they'd been up to since I last played but I knew I needed to do a thorough warm up. I started, but every few seconds someone else came over for a chat. Eventually we were quorate and the game began.

Actually it didn't, just as we were about to kick off, Jenson shouted out to everyone: "No one tackle Daniel." He said it seriously, no one argued, and the game began. I had decided beforehand that as people weren't going to tackle me it would be unfair if I got in their way if they were running at me. I played a friendly game but soon got involved in the normal business of trying to win a football match. It's a pick-up game so the teams are never the same but once you're on a team you can't stop the competitive instincts coming out.

Every time I ran with the ball I was aware that I was consciously thinking ahead, looking for danger and working out how to get rid of it without getting my body, and legs, into tricky situations. It was fine but a little strange. A little like a brilliant artist suddenly having to paint by numbers.

My passing was good, my shooting not bad either. The few games of solo football had certainly got me ready. I even scored a couple of goals. I can't really count them as even I appreciate that scoring is easier when no one tackles you.

As the game wore on I took my turn in goal and used the time to do some sprinting and turning exercises. I came out and carried on and the game finished and I was still standing, on my own two legs.

By this point I think everyone else had forgotten about me being away for a year and not playing. It was just another normal Thursday night game to them, but for me it was another step, almost the last one, on a very long journey. As I lay in bed later, after the obligatory visit to the pub, I flexed my leg, it felt fine, and I closed my eyes and I no longer had to imagine playing football. I'd played and I'd scored, one a really nice goal. I replayed it in mind and smiled as I fell asleep.

I Played Football

Just a day before my 48th birthday and a mere 7 and a half months after the operation I walked out of the front door with a football under my arm and my five-a-side trainers on my feet.

I jogged right out of the door, turned right at the end of the street and just a minute later I was in the park. I carried on jogging through the park until I had reached my destination; a concreted area with a wall at one end, high fences on the other three sides and a small five a side goal at either end.

It was 8.45am and the area was deserted. Not another soul was at the pitch. No, I wasn't ridiculously early, and no I had not been stood up by my footballing chums. This empty pitch was exactly what I had come for.

I dropped the ball in front of me and slowly, tentatively, gave it a little shove with my foot. I started to jog after it and did it again. This felt good. Before long I had reached the end where the wall was, I braced myself and gave the ball a proper kick. It flew away, crashed against the wall and came back almost straight to me. I tapped it forward, and then hit it again at the wall and started jogging along. This carried on for a few minutes, me just dribbling round the pitch and occasionally hitting against the wall.

I was playing football. Bliss.

Having been round the pitch a few times as a warm up I then did some shuttle runs, back and forth to different points on the edge of the semi-circular area from the middle of the goal. Just testing the push-off strength and change of direction ability of the knee.

Next came some zig-zag running between the two lines in the middle of the pitch which mark the edge of the two basketball  courts which are painted across the football area. I rolled the ball down the middle, then zig-zagged after it as quick as possible trying to catch it up. This was followed by a new form of zig-zag running which I invented myself. Running along a straight line at pace with my left foot landing on the right of the line and my right foot landing on the left.

Over thirty or so minutes I came up with many variations of these and other exercises. When I had finished I ran home with a smile smeared across my sweaty face. I was soaked through and knackered. I hadn't noticed how much running I had done, at no point had I felt the need to force myself to keep going. This is the difference between playing football and running on a treadmill. Katie always takes a tennis ball with us on walks. If I get tired, she throws it and I chase it. I maybe dumb, but she's not.

The next morning as I walked to the gym I noticed that my legs felt tired in a way they had not done for ages. I thought about it and realised that it was because I had exercised them in a way I hadn't done for ages. I decided that the end of the road to recovery was well in sight.

The day after my birthday I went to the gym and as I took my wrist band from the receptionist she piped up.

"Oh, sorry, I was going to say this yesterday. Happy belated birthday."

I'm a pedant, even when someone is being nice.

"I think you mean belated happy birthday." I said it with a smile but I knew before the sound waves had even hit her ears that it was cruel.

"What do you mean?"

Well I'd started, so I had to see if through.."It's your greeting that is late, not my birthday, so you need to be saying a belated happy birthday."

"Whatever." She looked at her nails.

"Thanks anyway though."

"              ", she replied. It was the loudest silence you'll ever not hear.

My knee may be almost better but I'm still and idiot.

Is it a Zig Zag or a Zag Zig

With less than two months to go until my target date for playing football again, but a month till my next Clodagh appointment I took matters into my own hands, or feet, and moved on to the next level of recuperation.

There's a great wikepedia page all about recovering from an ACL operation and because wikepedia is where I do all my research I took it on trust.

I've mentioned these two exercises before but never tried them. The first is the Illinois Agility Test. You can see it here: http://www.topendsports.com/testing/tests/illinois.htm

At the gym there is, for want of another word, a gym. A cavernous space which is rarely used apart from the occasional game of five a side, the weekly mosque takeover and, whisper it, some basketball. After yesterday's running session I approached reception about using it. I had already seen it was empty.

"Hi. Is it okay if I use the gym for a few minutes?"

"Have you booked it?"

"No."

"When do you want to use it?"

"Now. Just for a few minutes. It's empty." I turned and pointed to it, you can see it through the double doors from reception. "See empty." I turned round to see that the receptionist was not following my finger but was instead studying his bookings' book.

I waited as he ran is finger up and down a dated and timed column. He started humming. the humming went on a long time. I could have done what I needed in this time but I waited patiently. He carried on humming.

"Do you know you're humming?"

He looked up. "What?"

"While you are running your finger around the page, you seem to be humming in time with it."

He ignored me and went back to the book and his humming.  Eventually he looked up.

"It's free now. How long do you want to book it for?"

"I don't want to book it. I just want to use it, whilst it's empty."

"You can't do that. You have to book it, so it's in the book, so we know it's in use." He looked at me as though the logic of this was beyond doubt. I tried to keep calm.

"You'll know it's in use because if you look up you'll see me in there."

"Yes, but what if there's an accident? We need the booking for health and safety. Come on mate, don't my life difficult. Just make a booking."

"Ok." I played along. "I would very much like to book your splendid gym for ten minutes, starting at.. [I looked at my watch]..9.17, today, now."

"The minimum booking is thirty minutes."

I walked away, went to the toilet and pretended to do a wee. I flushed, of course. When I returned I noticed that he was playing on his phone. I snuck into the gym and proceeded to do the Illinois Agility Test.

I didn't have any cones so I imagined them. It went well. I was worried, initially, that on each turn my knee would give way, but it didn't. I repeated the test, pushing harder. It was good, I felt good. The world record is 10.84 seconds, I was nowhere near that but I felt pleased with life and so moved on to the Zig-Zag Agility test. http://www.brianmac.co.uk/zigzag.htm

It is not dissimilar to the Illinois test but wikepedia has them both as requirements and who am I to argue. I did it, and again it felt good. I left the gym with a smile on my face. As I walked past the reception, he shouted after me..

"Do you still want to book the gym?"

I hummed a bit too loud and ignored him.

A Statistical Review

Short Distance Running Progress - Treadmill unless stated.

1510 metres - 15 mins at a speed of 6km/h - 15th May. (First Post-Op Run)

2030 metres - 15 mins at 8.12 km/h - 26th May

3040 metres - 20 mins at 9.12 km/h - 1st June

1950 metres - 10 mins at 11.7 km/h - 13th June

2880 metres - 17 mins 20 sec at 10.02 km/h - 24th June. (First Street Run)

5.06 k - 30 mins at 10.12 km/h - 1st July (First 5k for many years)

2.05 k - 10 mins at 12.30 km/h - 3rd July

5.54 k - 30 mins at 11.08 km/h - 27th July

1.5 k - 6 mins 50 secs at 13.17 km/h - 18th Aug

6 k - 30 mins at 12 km/h - 2nd Sep

So yesterday I ran 6 kilometres at a speed twice as quick as I managed to run 1500 metres when I first started running again. The distance, the speed and the length of time running are all important because it is a combination of the three that gives me an indication of the build up of strength. This is all very good and I like it because it is totally quantifiable.

What is harder to judge is the solidity of the knee. I've started doing all the exercises that Clodagh suggested and have also looked ahead to see what comes next. You can see all this and more on wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anterior_cruciate_ligament_reconstruction but here are the highlights...

The Zig Zag Test - Doing some high speed zig zag runs in a small area.
The Illinois Agility Test - A zig zag test from Illinois. Similar to Zig Zag but more changes of direction.
The Heiden Hop Test - A hop test from Heiden. Hop from uninjured leg to injured leg (is that not called a step?) and try to nail the landing.
Isokinetic Testing - Various tests which isolate very specific muscles and/or joints.

I have to pass all these test, or rather do well at them, before the lush grass of the world's football pitches are re-opened to me.

One thing that I have not really touched on in these updates is the fact that whilst all my energies are focused on my knee it is easy to forget how I have to keep the rest of me going. I'm 47 and bits start to drop off. I was reminded of this after today's run when I noticed a blister on my foot. The whole recovery process could grind to a halt if this gets worse. You can see now why people are so enthusiastic to push the concept of holistic medicine. I have a message for Mr Blister - Eff Off. I will not let a blister make me move back my 10th of November return.

6 Month Review with Clodagh

"I can hardly believe it." Said Clodagh. "Six months already."

She didn't know that I have been ticking off the days and monitoring my progress so closely that I spend more time on my spread sheet than at work. (If my boss is reading this, that is an exaggeration for very mild comic effect.)

I hadn't seen the lovely Clodagh for two months. If you recall she had sent me off into the wilderness alone to endure the toughest two months of the recovery. No real progress, she had warned, just hard graft. Well if hard graft is good enough for Mo Farah, it's good enough for me.

Since I had last seen Clodagh we'd had Euro2012, footballing bliss, Wimbledon, tennis joy, The Tour de France, wonderful Wiggins, and the Olympics, sheer sporting brilliance. On the Monday after the closing ceremony I felt so depressed I thought my whole family had died in a tragic car crash. Empty does not describe it. Bereft is nowhere near. There isn't a word to describe just how empty I felt. In the same way that I have not found a word which explains the change in someone's face when they realise they are on the big screen at a major sporting event. Someone cleverer than me will, I am sure, come up with one.

So I felt blue, let's call it a deep blue. And folk who said to me "don't worry it's the Paralympics soon" have no understanding of sport or life. I have a major respect for the efforts of Paralympians, they are inspirational in a way that I can only ever dream about but I have absolutely no desire to watch them compete. In a pure sporting sense to compare the Paralympics to the Olympics is like comparing a meal at a Michelin starred restaurant with something I have cooked. Good luck to them, I hope they have a brilliant time and lots of people go and see them but I won't be one of them.

And while I am alienating every person who reads this I have to say a quick word about Oscar Pistorius competing in the Olympics. Again, let me say I have unlimited admiration for what he has achieved without legs. It's amazing. But the arguments about whether he should run in the Olympics have missed the point totally. It is nothing to do with whether his springs give him an advantage or not, I don't care (even though they actually do). The basic fact is, that it is a running race and sadly, he can't run because to run you need legs.

Anyway, if anyone is still reading I shall return to my struggle to regain the use in both my legs. There is a link of sorts.

Clodagh hadn't warned me that it would be an evaluation day. A day to test the progress I had made on my own. She'd said I would plateau. I told her all the figures from the spreadsheet, she was impressed. Then she made me do some squats. Oooh, that hurt. Then we went into the gym and long ruler stuck on the floor.

"Do you remember the hop test?"

"I do." So I repeated the hop test. Right leg managed to go a little further than left but not much. Clo comforted me saying that even in 'normal people' (not very PC there Clo, what would Oscar say?) there is an allowance of a difference of up to 15% between legs. Mine were actually closer than that. It is not just about hopping as far as you can, you have to nail the landing. I used all the knowledge I had gleaned from watching the gymnastics and nailed some landings that the British bloke who got a silver on the horse thing would have been proud of. I thought that would be it but I was wrong.

"Now the zig-zag hop test." This involves three consecutive hops along the ruler, each time going over to the other side of the ruler. Like the triple jump but all hop, and not in a straight line. I did it with both legs, twice, starting off on a different side of the ruler each time. The knee felt solid, I had not expected it to. The landings were good, the distance was good too.

We then moved on to new exercises. Hopping off the stairs, landing on operated leg, absorbing the weight and then, wait for it, holding the squat and swiveling my head to look left right, left right. This last bit seems pointless until you actually do it. The first time I fell over as I had not expected it to be difficult. Second time I had to hold on to something. Try it, it's tough.

We finished up with lunges, big lunges, a four course lunge you might say. At the deepest part of the lunge, holding weights at arms length in front, pivoting on the knee around my trunk. This gets the body used to the same sort of stress that you put on the knee joint when you are kicking the ball.

Clodagh is doing an MA and I hope she passes. Maybe we'll both pass at the same time. As I cycled away I felt better about my knee, better about my chances of playing football again. The deep blue of post-Olympic life had become a sky blue.

The False Sense of Achievement of the Running Machine

When the doctor turned up at our gym I thought he was kidding when he said he wanted to study my recovery. He said he'd found me via the blog. He was a tall chap, with rimless glasses, a clipboard and a stopwatch. It was only when he emailed me the following that I realised he was pukka. This may be my 15 seconds of fame...

Extract from the British Medical Journal - Spring 2012

"Why Running Machines Don't Help Runners"

Summary: Following an ACL operation our subject built up his strength on a standard gym running machine. After 3 months he was able to comfortably run at a speed of 11km/h for 30 minutes. He then went on a road run. He ran for 27 minutes at a speed of 10.8 km/h, and collapsed in a heap on arriving home.

Conclusion: Running machines give athletes of all abilities a false sense of their fitness.


Explanation: The are three areas where the running machine gives false readings for the athlete.
1 - The treadmill moves whether the athlete is on it or not. Thus the athlete's effort is not in pushing his body forward, or even in pushing the treadmill backwards. The athlete merely has to get his foot forward on each step to stop falling off.
2 - The muscles used are different for treadmill running than street running. As explained in point 1, the athlete is trying to keep up with the treadmill. Whilst there is some overlap in the muscles used, not all the muscles used for street running are engaged in treadmill running.
3 - In street running, 60% of the effort is used in pushing through the air. (For cycling this goes up to 80%) On a treadmill the athlete is not moving through space but is stationary. This means the effort required to 'run' is much less than on the street.

So now I know why I nearly died when I got back from first 5k street run. Science. It's a wonderful thing.

Five Months Down Four to Go

Having reached what Clodagh referred to as the boring part of my recovery I almost missed the five month anniversary of the operation.

That's today.

I went to the gym and cycled for 30 minutes. The machine said I had traveled 16.1kms. I was pretty pooped. I think if it was a real bike I would have been traveling about half the speed of the cyclists in a time trial on the current Tour de France.

But I'm not competing with them, I'm competing with myself, and I won't lose to myself. Over time I am slowly increasing the speed, and the length of time that I do all of the exercises. I'm mixing it up with the main things being a 30 minute jog (5.16kms), a 10 minute sprint (2.1kms), the long cycle, and a ten minute short cycle (5.4kms). I'm keeping a strict record so that I have a target every time I go.

The cycling is tiring but not a killer. The running though is really tough. I've never liked running and I have to trick myself into doing the whole workout. On the 30 minute run I just take in 3 minute chunks. As I approach 15 minutes and feel like I can't go on, I tell myself I'll stop at 20. At 20 I make myself do another minute with the promise of stopping. Slowly but surely I force myself to do the whole thing.

On all the machines there is a note: If you feel faint, pain, dizziness or short of breath at any time while using this machine stop immediately and visit your physician.

It's an American machine of course, and I don't know any physicians. If I stopped running in any of those circumstances I'd never get past two minutes. All of those things seem to be intrinsic to exercise. I had to give myself the smile test last week when I got home to make sure I hadn't had a stroke.

As I was walking home the other day I saw someone posting taxi cards through doors. I noticed he'd put some into a house with a big and clear sign saying 'No Junk Mail'.

"Hi. Why did you post the card there, where it says no junk mail?"

He looked at me, then at his cards, then at the door. When he spoke I realised he was Eastern European.

"What is yunk mail? This not yunk mail. This my cousin's business, good business. He pay me well. Not yunk."

"I'm sorry, you misunderstand me. (I tried to think of a clear explanation, I failed) Junk mail is defined as post that is not addressed to the household. It's unsolicited."

He stared at me blankly.

"It's mail that the person in the house doesn't want."

"How you know they don't want it?"

"Because they have the sign."

"But they all need taxis."

"They may need taxis occasionally but they don't need you posting your card through their door every day. If they need a taxi I am sure they already have a favourite taxi firm they use."

"How do you know?"

"Because they have the sign on their door saying 'no junk mail'. In simple terms if it doesn't have their name on the envelope they don't want it."

"There is no envelope."

I walked on as he continued posting in every house.

Street Running - It's a nightmare.

On the 26th October I went for a run. It was after my injury, but well before the operation, it was even before the injury had been diagnosed.

I ran 5.12 kms in 32 minutes. I didn't run all the way, it was a bit of running, a bit of walking.

Since the operation I have been running on the gym. The treadmill promises an even surface with no surprises but, as I have said before, it does a lot of the work for you. My best performance in terms of speed has been 10 minutes at 12 kph, or 25 mins at 10.7. Clodagh said last week that I was okay to start running on the road so this morning I waved Katie off to her tennis lesson and set off on the pavement.

Using google-map I had worked out a small circuit with two long sides of 400 metres each, and two short sides of 100 metres each. I ran the first 400 and was knackered by the time I reached the first corner. I walked a hundred metres, feeling like I couldn't go on. By the next corner I had enough breath to run another 400. I continued doing this for 3 circuits. In the gym I reckon I could have run the 3km in about 15 minutes without too much bother, just.

On the mean streets of West London I was dying, and that included walking a hundred metres after every four hundred. I did it in 18 minutes and was shattered. Sitting here now typing a few hours later I am still tired. More tired than after any gym session. Road running is, I estimate, at least 30% harder than the treadmill. One of the problems is judging pace. At the gym you can set it exactly and you get to know your limits. Pounding the streets I have no idea how quickly I started off. I know now it was way too quick.

My plan now is to do the street at least twice a week. I hope it gets easier. About 15 years ago Katie and I went running quite a lot. We'd got to a point where we could run quite quickly, chat to each other and actually enjoy it. Then she tripped over a pavement, cut her knee really badly and that was it. We never got back to that level but that is what I am aiming for.

I've Run a Marathon. Who Would Have Thunk It?

Yes, I have run a marathon. In June 2012.

It started on the 1st of June, at the gym,on the treadmill and I have had 13 runs on it since then. In that time, ending today, I have run just over 43 kilometres. It has only taken 240 minutes, that's only 4 hours. Not bad, a marathon in 4 hours, just 4 and half months after the operation.

In other news...

Having graduated from ACL club I went back for a physio update with Clodagh. She did various pulling, pushing and twisting and seemed happy. Then I asked her if she wanted my stats.

"Ok." She said, suspiciously.

"I've been keeping a spreadsheet at home so I've got them all." This is for all the different exercises such as hamstring curls (28kg), leg press (124kg), knee extension (35kg).

The look on her face was a mixture of surprise, interest and astonishment. Not all of it admiring. Whilst it is useful for her in monitoring my progress I think she was a little disturbed that I had been documenting it all.

"I can email you the whole spreadsheet if you like. There's stuff on there above and beyond what you need and you might find it interesting. You could give it to other patients to use as a template."

"I've just got to go and check something."

She left for a bit. I thought it was so she could check to see if any other physios wanted to come and talk to me. I now think she just went away to avoid falling into a deep sleep.

She returned with some forms, and filled in various bits, using my data.

"It's going really well. The next couple of months will be the most frustrating. There are no new exercises to give you, you just need to carrying on building up the strength but you're doing really well."

I couldn't stop myself asking. "Of all the people who have had the operation, do you think I'm doing better than anyone else you've ever worked with?" I'm actually only twelve years old.

She looked at me for a bit, I think she wasn't sure if I was serious. "It's ok, you can tell me, I won't tell the others." She pondered a little longer.

"Well [pause] you're certainly ticking all the right boxes."

"Ticking the right boxes to be the best ever, or ticking all the right boxes for a good recovery?"

"Yes." She stood up and started folding things up. Our session was over and I am the best patient she has ever had, I think.

I skipped out, although I'm not really allowed to skip yet, but stopped when I realised I'd forgotten to tell her that I'd run a marathon. I went back, but she was with another patient. I'll tell her next time.

4 Month Anniversary

Today, the 10th of June, marks four months since the operation. An important milestone and so a day for jubilation. I awoke bright and early and set off for the gym. My cheery mood was instantly halted by a police cordon blocking my route. I approached the bobby manning the plastic ribboned area.

"Morning officer."

"Morning Sir. Nice day?"

"Well the sun's out so yes, but there's obviously been some trouble on my street so no. What happened?"

"It appears there was a shooting last night. No reports of casualties but forensics are looking for stuff up there." He pointed towards the far end of the blocked off area.

"I think I heard the shots actually. At 3.45am. Four shots, then I heard a car going that way." I pointed. I thought he might take out his notebook as I was obviously an ear witness to the event. He looked around and then up at the skies. I thought he might be about to say something about the problems with society.

"The weather's turned out nice." I gave up trying to be a helpful citizen, turned and went the long way round to the gym. I told myself that the extra distance would be a good warm up. It was.

At the gym, four months after my operation, I ran for twenty minutes and covered a distance of 3.57 kms. Not bad I reckon although I realise that the running machine makes running so much easier. You just pick your feet up and put them down again and the treadmill moves them along. It is a false achievement but it is still not bad. One of my nieces had visited on the Friday, she's a runner and competes at county level. She's only 16, is stick thin, and has the physique of a proper runner. I wish I hadn't but I asked her how quick she ran.

"1500 metres I can do in about 4 minutes 50." I'd seen the athletics from Oslo the night before and by coincidence had noted the time the woman had run the 1500, it was 4 minutes 4.

"That's pretty good."

"Nah, it's slow."

"What other distances do you do?" I was being the friendly uncle but I really wanted a bench mark to measure my running against.

"I did a 3000 race and finished second. I think my time was 11.05." I did a sharp intake of breath. "Slow again, it was only the first time I'd done that distance."

A quick bit of mental arithmetic will show you that she is running about 50% quicker than me. On my spreadsheet I added her times as a target. I've probably never been able to run that quick so it is a bit stupid but it's something to aim for. I could probably run that quick for about a minute before dying. I'll try it soon and let you know. Of course if I die, you'll never know.

Coming back from the gym I encountered a street meeting between three of my neighbours. They were discussing the shooting.

"Police say they've found the shells but no casualties were reported." Announced Mo.

"Drug gangs. You've got to be unlucky if you get caught in the crossfire." Added Barry.

"They never report any injuries do they? The gangs. They'd be shooting themselves in the foot straight away." Paddy completed the discussion.  I was tempted to chip in a joke about them probably not aiming for the feet with their shots but it seemed inappropriate.

Mo and Paddy left with their kids for a curling match. Barry chuckled to himself.

"Funny thing is that I was just telling the people who have just moved in how quiet it is here. They won't talk to me again will they? Stupid thing though, it is quiet. The drug gangs shoot each other but not us. I've lived here 16 years and never had a spot of trouble." He repeated his feeling about being unlucky if you get caught up in it. "I'm putting a quid on Gerrard to score first and England to win 1-0." He was referring to tomorrow night's match at Euro 2012.

"I wouldn't bother telling the new people that, they won't believe anything you say now."

"It's only a couple of quid."

We'd moved on from the previous night's drug shooting in which, for all we knew, someone had died, or at the very least been badly injured. It had happened on our doorstep but it may as well have been a million miles away. I don't think this can be a good thing but I am not sure what we should do about it. I tried ringing the Trident Hotline to tell them what I'd heard but it went straight to answerphone. On the sheet of paper that had been posted to everyone in the street it also had a Crimestoppers number and offered a reward for information. I didn't want to profit from someone's death or injury so I put the paper to one side. I'll call it later. Maybe after the football.

I Should Just Stop Talking To People

Two incidents from this week which sum up my life.


The Incident with the Kid and the Scooter.
Coming back from the gym my timing was bad and I was faced with a barrage of kids on scooters all zooming towards me on the pavement. Before my injury I would easily have dodged them but I am still worried about side steps and sudden movement so I was nervous.

After they had all gone past I breathed a sigh of relief, not noticing the final one bombing round the corner. Before I knew it he was a foot from me, I had nowhere to go so I stuck out my arm and grabbed the handle bar, bringing him to a sudden stop which just avoided him whacking into my knee. He was looking at me in shocked silence when his mum came round the corner laughing into her phone, until she saw me.

"Oy, what you doing with my Sam?"

I tried to sound friendly, even though I was not happy. "Nothing. I just had to stop him from smashing into my knee. No harm done. I'm ok."

"You're ok? What about my boy? You can't go touching little boys." I could see where this was heading so I tried to keep calm.

"I didn't touch Sam. I just touched his scooter, to stop him hurting me and him."

"How do you know his name?"

"You just said it."

"I never. Have you been following him? Where do you live? What are you doing outside a school at this time? Haven't you got a job?"

I knew I'd best stick to the facts but I lost it. "No. None of your business. Coming back from the gym. Yes." She tried to intervene but I was annoyed now. "But the point is your son nearly scootered into me. I had a major, yes major, operation on this knee" I pointed at it for effect, rolling up my tracksuit to show the scars, "just a few weeks ago and the last thing I need is an out of control kid cruising into it. What's he doing on the scooter anyway? It's a leisure activity, not a form of transport. You should have been in control of him but you were too busy on your i-phone."

"It's a f@cking Samsung you pervert. (She turned to Sam) Come on Sam. (Then back to me) I've got my eye on you.(She even did the two fingers pointing into her eyes then back at me thing) I know where you live. I've seen you and your shit Renault."

She walked off. I don't have a Renault and I wanted to put her right but I decided it was best if she thought I was the bloke who owned the Renault.

The Incident with the Cereal and the Chicken Stock

Katie bought some cereal and when she opened it the plastic bag was already open and some of the cereal was absent. She'd bought it from a Tesco in town and so I was volunteered to take it back to our local one. You see the logic I'm sure.

"You can pick up some chicken stock from the butcher's over the road while your there."

I muttered something about having a job to do and that I was not her servant but she had moved onto something else, wasn't listening and so the task was mine.

I didn't take any money for the stock as I had the card that she'd bought the cereal with and thought that would be fine.

All the way to Tesco I was rehearsing my arguments ready for anything they might throw at me.

You need to go to the shop you bought it at > I bought it from Tesco. Is this not Tesco? I shall have a refund from here otherwise I will be standing on your front door for the rest of the day turning people away.

How do I know you didn't open it yourself, try it and not like it > Why would I waste my time with that. We always eat this cereal. We love it. Now give me my money back, or replace the cereal otherwise etc etc

We don't stock that here, we only do replacements so you'll have to go back to where you bought it > It is my right under the shopping act of 1972 to have a full refund if I am not happy with the product. Now give me my money back etc etc

There were several others but you get the picture.

By the time I got to the shop my head was fit to burst and I was ready for anything they could say. I walked up to the most important person I could find.

"Hello. My wife bought this cereal and when she opened it, it was already opened." My fists were clenched, I knew it would be a verbal battle not physical but I was a coiled spring.

Vanessa, assistant manager, took the box, looked inside it and looked at me. "Oh, that's not good. Do you have the receipt?" I did, of course. She studied it for a moment and walked away, reappearing a moment later with three shiny one pound coins.

"Oh, thanks." I walked out the shop stunned. She had flummoxed me with a judo like move, using all my strength against me. I'd got my money back but I felt like I'd lost. Half heartedly I shouted behind me: "Would a sorry be so difficult?" No one heard, the door had shut and Vanessa was straightening her 'employee of the month' picture by the door.

I had three pounds now which I hadn't expected and so decided to spend two of them on a Euromillions ticket. It was a £73m rollover that night. I went to the butcher's first.

"Hi. Chicken stock please."

"£2.40 please."

"Can I pay with card? I haven't got any cash."

"Sorry we only take cards for payments over £10."

I had £3 in my pocket but I had quite clearly said I didn't have any cash. I didn't want him to think I was a liar.

"There's an ATM at Tesco."

"Cheers. I'll nip over." I walked out the shop. Damn. I didn't want to get cash out, but I knew if I gave him coins he'd know I had lied. I hid round the corner thinking for a bit. Trying to work out how long I'd have to wait to make it seem like I'd gone to Tesco. Then I thought of a get-out plan. I rushed back to the butcher's.

Handing him my three pound coins I smiled. "Found them on the floor of the car."

He didn't care, possibly didn't even remember me, but he smiled, "amazing what you find down there. I found a carpet once."

I was pleased that my lie had not been discovered but a little disappointed not to be able to buy the lottery ticket. I walked out the shop, crossed the road and was about to get on my bike when I realised he could see me from his counter. I veered away from the bike and sat on a bench.

Shit shit shit. A web of lies. Lies, for nothing. Just as I was about to punch myself in the face a bus stopped outside the butchers, I leapt up, ripped my bike out of the stand and bombed down the hill. The wind was blowing through my hair and I felt like I'd actually won the lottery. I looked back on the experience and laughed at how stupid I am. All good stuff for the blog I thought. I opened the front door, parked the bike in the hall and then realised I'd left the chicken stock on the bench.

ARGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm Not Built for Long Distance Running

In the few years before my injury London had opened up to me in a new way thanks to my use of a bike. It had become such a large part of my transport portfolio that it was rare for me to use anything else. The injury and more specifically the operation curtailed this and so today was a big day.

For the first time since the operation I cycled all the way to the hospital and back. It's a total distance of 15.04 kilometres. The sun was out, the traffic was calm and life seemed to have returned to some level of normalcy. I loved it.

At ACL club I came across an old friend, Spanish Bun. He had his operation on the same day as me, just before me. At the first trip back to see Mr Knee he was told off in no uncertain terms for not following instructions and seeing him at ACL club I was slightly sad to realise that he had not heeded the warnings. He was limping, he was unable to do most of the exercises and appeared to be about 2 months behind me in his recovery. This added to my sadness at hearing the news that someone else from ACL club, who had been attending pre-operatively, had still not got an op date and had been told to stop coming to the circuit training as it was making her injury worse. I'd bumped into her on the way in, as she was on the way out. She'd injured herself ski-ing and had just received that news that she was unlikely to be on the slopes before 2014. She was distraught.

As usual on seeing other folk worse off than myself I took a moment to count my blessings.

Moment over I had a word with Clodagh about my fitness regime. I wanted to know if my running should be focused on speed, distance or time. The answer was not the one I wanted; time. It was all about increasing endurance, building up general fitness, before going on to speed.

I don't like running, never have. I do it only to reach the ball. In fact, I don't like walking that much. Katie often brings a tennis ball when we go for walks and throws it for me to chase while she looks at the scenery, or whatever else it is that people do who like walking in the country.

Since being given the go ahead to start running I have run a total of 18.08 kms over 10 sessions and a running time of 150 minutes. I know this because I have a detailed spreadsheet to monitor my progress. I need to up this and I'm not looking forward to it but at least I've had the op, I'm at a point that Clodagh is happy with and my target of November 10th to play football is still a possibility. I'm counting my blessings, and will continue to do so as I count off the miles.

One final thing of note from ACL club was the arrival of Rodger. He's 37, teaches gymnastics, had his operation three weeks ago and is already looking fitter than I ever have. They were having to hold him back from doing level 5 exercises which I still haven't got to. His shockingly quick recovery time nearly made me fall off my stationary bicycle until I heard that this is the third time his cruciate has gone. Ouch. Counting my blessings.

Like a Shark, I keep moving

Having had my first run I was eager for another and so approached the gym excitedly the next day, aware that I should not try and go too quick. Feeling perky I continued my charm offensive on Ms Rable, the gym receptionist. I treat life like impro, always say the first thing that comes into your head.

"Ooh, you look a bit tired today." I thought this showed concern and that I'd noticed a change in her demeanour. Surely this makes me a nice caring person. She took it like a criticism.

"I ain't got no make-up on."

Again, first thing that comes into my.."You do realise that's a double negative which in fact means you do have make-up on?"

"No. I haven't. I got up late." As she was saying this I realised that she'd changed her hair. Previously it had been brown and curly, today it was straight, shiny and had a red tinge. If only I had said something about that rather than her looking tired. I filed it away for later and walked away from what was now an awkward situation.

On the stairs up to the gym there is a poster which has been there since my first day:

We Are Currently Updating Our Posters.

From what I can see this seems to be taking a rather long time. Not a single poster has changed since I joined. That doesn't make this poster incorrect but it is rather irritating. I decided that the next day I would bring in a post it note: 'No you're not' and see if that created a stir.

Before going on the running machine I go on the bike. This is my version of a warm up but because of my competitive nature I can't help myself wanting to beat the day before. I go too quickly then slow down near the end so that I advance on the previous day's score by just a little, then on to the running. Again I aim to beat the previous day by just a little. I'm running for 15 minutes and I'm aiming for just over 1500 metres. As I said before, it's not quick but it's enough to push the knee, and is actually quite tiring having not had any real cardio work for over six months.

At home, Katie is worried that I will do too much too soon. I explain that I'm running so slowly that the machine thinks I have stopped. I think she believes me. I explain to her how my charm offensive failed. She is never surprised by my lack of ability to talk to or understand women.

"Never tell a woman she looks tired."

"But I was showing concern."

"You might as well have said she's ugly."

"What should I have said?"

"Nothing. Don't talk to women, you don't understand them."

"Her hair looked nice. Should I have said something about that?"

"If you do that she'll think you're trying to chat her up."

"I'm just trying to be friendly, cheer her up."

"Believe me, you can cheer her up by not talking to her."

"Would that cheer you up?"

"What?"

"Me not talking to you?"

"Right now?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Oh, okay. I'll cook the tea."

My next run came the next morning. The bin men, for some reason, keep not taking our bag out of the bin. We were just leaving the house as they went past, without our bin.

"Quick, Daniel, grab the bin bags and run after them."

"You said I shouldn't run too quickly." She grabbed the bags, chucked one at me and set off down the road. "You need to get there first, I'll be too rude." I chuppeted after her, trying to run at a pace no quicker than 1600 metres in 15 minutes, difficult to judge on the street when you're carrying a bin bag. I overtook Katie and got to the bin van. All the way I had been trying to think of a way to broach the subject without sounding middle class and uptight. As I arrived I believed I had succeeded.

Handing him the bag: "What's wrong with our rubbish, not good enough for you?" I said it with a chuckle in my voice just to emphasise that this was a light hearted way of telling him he wasn't doing his job.

"Where was it?" Katie had just arrived.

"Where'd'you think it was? In the 'king bin."

"Alright luv, no need to swear."

"You collect my rubbish" she'd gone all squeaky "and I won't swear." When she gets annoyed her voice goes so high pitched that dogs within 50 metres have to cover their ears.

"Well where was it?" I stepped in, there was glass around and I didn't want it shattered.

"In front of the house, brick building with a door, in the bin, round metal thing with a lid."

"Well I didn't see it."

Katie's head exploded all over the street and I had to drag her away.

Run Forrest Run!

The three month anniversary of my op was the 10th May. A vital day in the recovery as it is officially the point at which one gets assessed by the physio to see if you can start running again.

As I approached the ACL club on Monday just gone, I was a little nervous. It was a similar feeling to doing my A levels. Actually that's not true. I did hardly any work for my A levels, they coincided with a really good World Cup and I let myself down. Lazy did not even cover it. Here though I had worked hard, I'd been to the gym almost every day, I'd backed that up with lots of stuff at home, every hour or so doing some little exercise. So I was ready but the feeling in my stomach was too close to A levels to let me feel comfortable.

The test consists of two elements, the first is to test control and flexiblity, the second  stability.

Part One - The Star Excursion Balance Test.
Imagine standing in the centre of an eight point star. From the centre, stretching out to each point is a ruler.

Standing on your good leg you have to stretch the other leg out as far along each ruler as possible. Then you stand on your injured leg and do the same.

As I did the first half of this I realised that my supposedly good leg is not very stable. I was stretching quite far but was very wobbly.

"Have you been drinking?" Minnie was chucklling.

"I never stand on this leg, it's my kicking foot."

"Hmmm." She noted the distances that I managed on each point of the star. "Ok now on the crippled leg."

"Are you allowed to call it that?"

"Yep, let's go."

Slowly, gingerly, I stretched out. Amazingly it was actually more solid than the right leg. "It's because you have been doing so much work in strengthening it." I was able to reach about 80% with the acl leg of what the good leg could do. She seemed pleased.

"Ok, now the hop test."

Part Two - Hop Test
Standing at the start of one of the rulers you have to hop, on your good leg, as far as possible, and land it solidly. Nail it, as they say in gymnastics. Repeat two more times and use the best as a measure. Then repeat with the bad leg.

With the good leg I managed a long hop but the landing was awful, I wobbled all over and had to do some mini hops to control it. "Do it again, maybe a bit shorter, it's not the Olympics." I went again and managed a metre with a good landing. Attempts two and three came and went and my longest was 1.3 metres.

Now the bad leg. I felt so nervous at first that I couldn't take off. I got the yips. I couldn't jump. Minnie assured me; "Don't worry, it's fine, don't try to match the good leg, just do a little one first." I pushed off with my crippled leg, flew through the air, landed and nailed it. Wow.

Minnie wrote down: 27 cms.

Ok, I thought, need to go a bit further. I ignored the ruler and just let myself go as far as felt safe, 70 cms. "Not bad." Said Minnie with a boosting smile. "Cheers." "One more."

I bent the leg and pushed off...95 cms. "It's hardly Jonathan Edwards but not bad."

"At least I jump on Sundays."

Minnie was writing stuff down and looking at charts. She then showed me the figures, I didn't really see them as I was just waiting for the yes or no.

"So can I start running?"

"Yes..." I'm sure she said something else but I didn't hear the rest of it. This is the first major hurdle on the recovery, and I had jumped it, literally.

Yesterday I did my first run, on the running machine - 1500 metres in 15 minutes. Not quick, in fact you could walk it at that speed, but I ran it, gently, steadily, slowly but I ran it.

The Football Season Draws to a close - Part 2

Mayfield 3rd XI secured promotion with a 6-0 away win at Old Bealonians. I played no part other than suggesting to one of the players to hit a corner harder so it would hit someone and go in. He did, it did. 3-0 just after half time.

I was delighted that the team I had built the previous season had gone up, but felt detached from them. The only game I had got on to the pitch for was a 3-3 home draw with Old Bealonians. Five minutes, and my knee collapsed. It was the last time I had attempted to play football so coming here to see them play was tinged with sadness.

On the way home I reflected on the fact that most of my team are under 30, making most of them at least 17 years younger than me. When I finally get fit again, would I be able to even get in the team? I watched London whizz by and looked forward to another game I was due to watch. I had been persuaded to go to Stockholm to watch the England Writers team take on their Swedish counterparts. As a regular member of this team I would normally be playing. Since the injury I have been the de facto manager for our occasional friendlies and this was our first international since the operation.

The Swedes are a strong team and rumours had it that there would be three former professional players in their squad. As it turned out there was only one, and he had only played youth team football for Inter Milan and was capped at youth level for his country! Easy peasy.

I spent the week before the game pondering my options. We have rolling substitutes so that everyone gets an even time on the pitch. This has its problems as some players think we should always just play to win. I don't think it is fair for someone to fly all that way and just get 10 mins. Anyway, I found a system, told the chaps, and also introduced a new corner routine. As it happened this was my best contribution as it led to both our goals and a half time 2-0 lead. In the second half we wilted and they equalised but we finished best and should have won.

I spent the whole weekend wishing I was playing. I found it tough being in the group and not playing but I'm glad I went. As I got the tube home from the airport with Paul he pointed out that the next time we go abroad I will be fit to play. That felt good.

The Football Season Draws to a close - Part 1

My Saturday team, Mayfield Athletic 3rd XI, had their final match on Saturday 5th May. We needed to win to clinch promotion. I've been involved a little this season but it has mainly been my brother Beaky and Gavin running it. Saturday was also Beaky's last game for the club. At 50 he has decided to concentrate on his veterans' football career.

I took the tube to get to the game which was on the other side of London in Fairlop. On the way we stopped at numerous stations, about 40 in all, but it was at Mile End that my jaw hit the floor. The doors opened and on stepped the oldest living woman I have ever seen, her skin was dark brown although she would be classed as Caucasian. I was just lifting my jaw back into place when her mum followed her on. A teenage boy next to me spat out his Red Bull. They both sat down and began to discuss last night's Eastenders.

The teenager's eyes were on stalks, as if he was seeing creatures from another planet. In a way he was, they were from the last century, if not the one before. He could not drag his eyes away and eventually they noticed.

"Fancy my mum do you sonny?" He couldn't speak, she continued. "He fancies you mum."

"Wouldn't be the first."

"Nor the last. Go on mum, make his day, give 'im a kiss." The mother dragged herself up from her seat and moved towards the kid just as the train stopped again. He got up and flew out of the exit. The ladies cackled all the way to Leytonstone.

They train took ages. As I it approached Fairlop I was thinking about the Road to Recovery. Going to see this game made think of the the reason I was working so hard to get back and it is a goal I need to reach but it is frustrating because I am doing all this just to get back to normal. It is not as though I will have actually achieved anything. Thoughts turned to death but brightened as I walked into the changing room and saw the lads putting on their bright orange shirts. My cockles were warmed and I remembered again that joyous feeling you get when you are about to play game of football.

Snookered

The World Snooker Championship is on at the moment. I have been watching it since the mid 1970s. Every year I have always said that I would go up to the Crucible in Sheffield to see it live and finally I made it. With me not playing sport we decided to make some trips out and Sheffield was one of the first we booked.

A few months ago I had made the same trip up North. On that occasion it was to see an Ibsen play at the theatre, I was rather more excited about seeing the boys on the baize.

As we walked up to the famous old theatre I suddenly got overly excited and started shaking a bit, Katie had to calm me down as I rushed us through into our seats. The lights went down, a hush descended, play began, and then seemingly instantly it was over. Three hours, eight frames, whizzed by like a thundering, whispering train. The Ibsen had been a similar length but that had felt like days compared to this. The true drama of real live sport can not be beaten. I loved every minute of it, and then loved it even more when we went again in the evening. Brilliant.

Back on the treadmill down at the gym I have begun to ramp up the pressure. Each day I am increasing the speed a little, and upping the level of difficulty. My leg is getting stronger, and the thigh muscle is returning. The stats show it and my walking shows it. I can now leg press over 100 kilos, which is past the target set by the hospital before I can go running again. Next ACL circuit training should see me given the thumbs up.

After going to the gym for nearly two months I only just noticed that the sports hall is often used by the local Muslim community for prayers. They take it over, lay down their prayer mats and get down to it. I stuck my head round the door the other day to see what was going on. It wasn't full, but there was a good old crowd. My peep coincided with the end of prayers and so I got spied spying. I thought they'd be annoyed but to my surprise they invited me in. It seems that no one else who uses the gym as a gym has ever shown any interest in them. We chatted happily for a few minutes before I bade them farewell. As I left, they were laughing and joking and seemed to be a jolly bunch.

My other major excitement recently has been my NHS health check. They take blood, do blood pressure, weigh you, measure your waist and so on. The results came and were all ok, but I decided to visit my GP to discuss them. The real reason I arranged this appointment was because Katie thinks I have alzheimers and she finally convinced me to ask the doctor to test me.

I was crapping myself with the knowledge that if I failed my life would suddenly take a dramatic turn for the worse. It was worse than a-levels, degree, and driving test all at once.

"I'm going to tell you a name and address, repeat them back to me and later on I will ask you to repeat them again." Oh shit!! "John Brown, 42 High Street, Kensington." I repeated the details back, phew. "Now I want you to draw a clock face, with the hands at ten past eleven."

How can I do that and remember the address? If they had taken my pulse at this point I'd have been in the danger zone. Suddenly I found it impossible to draw a clock face, I concentrated as hard as I could, all the while trying to retain the address. Clock face drawn and presented, I was ready to announce the name and address but no.

"Now tell me two stories that have been in the news this week." I managed these quite easily, hoping, praying I would now be allowed to do the address. "Just tell me a bit more about that second story." I was sweating. Don't look back at it, can you repeat the address?

Finally, just when I thought my head would pop he asked for the address.

"John Brown, 42 High..." I paused, was it street or road? Aaaaahhhhhhhhh! Go for street. Yes it's street..."42 High Street, Kensington."

Phew. I nearly died, my head nearly exploded but I managed it. The upshot being that..."You don't have alzheimers. Tell your wife you're just not listening or concentrating when she talks to you."

"Maybe it would be better if I just said I had alzheimers!" He chuckled, not the first time he's heard that joke I'll warrant.

The 25% Moment.

And suddenly I'm a quarter of the way through. Seems a little strange that I now only have to go through what I have been through already three more times. This is doable.

An interesting day today started with an audition.

Whilst I was waiting to go in a couple of the receptionists were rooting through the cupboard. All this bending apparently revealed the lower back tattoo of one to the other.

"Ooh, I like your tattoo."

"Thanks."

"What does it mean?"

"Having endured the pain."  Time for a joke methinks and so I chip in.

"Having endured the pain of having a tattoo done?" No one laughs. Tattoo girl replies with utter contempt...

"Actually, having endured the pain of having two back spurs removed, from which I was almost paralysed."

I should have left it but if you've been followed these you'll know I can't. "So having endured the pain of having a couple of back spurs removed you decided to have a tattoo in the place where you'd had the back problem."

"Do you know anything, about anything?"

Fortunately at this point it was my turn to go in. Not the best preparation for an audition.

At the gym, later, I was cycling away when my eye caught some movement to my left. I glanced over, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a rather old bloke also cycling. He'd obviously let himself go and was not exactly an oil painting. He looked tired and sweaty. I looked away and thanked my lucky stars I didn't look as bad as him. A moment later I couldn't stop myself having another look. I wanted to see if he was peddling as quick as me. I look over and it was only at this point that I realised I had been looking at the mirror.


A few people have asked me if I made up the word Crepitus? Of course not. If I could make up words that good I wouldn't be wasting my time doing anything else. Although having said that my brothers and I did make up a word which is brilliant. I spell it 'Chuppetting'. It is pronounced with a good bit of phlegm at the start as though you are clearing your throat. It is the word we use for leaving a football ground when you are trying to go quickly but you don't want to seem like you're running. 

Anyway the Crepitus is loud this week, I can hear it when I walk up the stairs and when I move my leg at night. It sounds like it all needs oiling. I think all the strengthening work is great but I'll be most pleased when I can't hear my knee anymore.

Crepitus - a grating or popping sound.

For nearly a month now I have been going to the gym. It is pretty much the same time every day and yet there is only one other person who I see most days. He dresses all in black like the Milk Tray man, and is what you might call a silver fox. I'm calling him Silver Tray.

Whenever I arrive he is usually on one of the running machines and is normally pelting out the yards. When he finishes he is absolutely dripping in sweat, his kit soaked through. He then does a funny thing. He prowls around the gym, it is sort of a warm down, but it seems as though he is doing it so that everyone there can see just how sweaty he has got, just how much work he has put in. After a full circuit, he dries off a bit and them drips his perspiration over a variety of machines. He's quite polite and tries to dry them off when he's done but that amount of sweat is hard to shift.

All this gym work has had a positive effect on the knee but one thing worries me greatly. Grab yourself an empty bag of crisps, now scrunch it up in your fist. That crunching noise is similar to the noise my knee makes whenever I straighten my leg. I mentioned it to the doctor when I had the last check up. This week I received a letter detailing that visit and to my surprise I was informed of the name of that noise: Crepitus. It's a brilliant Scrabble word and I can pretty much guarantee no one else will know what it means. It is actually a bit of catch all because it can describe the noise of two bones grating together or the sound made by gas, or fluid, squirting through soft tissue.

I took me, my crepitus and myself off to the Cup Semi Final this weekend. Everton offered a tame display and as I sat there at the end of the game I pondered what had gone on in the lead up to the game. To my left the Liverpool end were singing You'll Never Walk Alone, to my right, the Everton end had emptied. At moments like this I like to force myself to endure the pain of the defeat. If you rush away from it, without letting it sink in and witnessing the winning team's celebration, you lose perspective and have no vantage point from which to enjoy your next victory. So I forced myself to stay and suffer their joy. Did I regret the arguments I'd had with my brother over the ticket he gave to his girlfriend? Not really. He was wrong to do it, she was wrong to accept. Did I regret the week's salary it had cost me to pay for the tickets I did get? No, it was Everton's most important game this century and I had to be there. What hurt the most was that we had the better team but a collective inability to function against Liverpool, bred by the manager, meant that we threw away the chance.

As the last of the delighted Liverpool fans danced their way out of the stadium I finally stood up. Katie was quiet, not sure how upset or angry I was. We walked slowly to the bus stop, an empty bus came quickly and we realised that we'd make it home in time to watch the Grand National. Life didn't seem too bad after all even though I broke the silence on the bus with my crepitus as I walked up the stairs.

Nine 1/2 Weeks - Not the Film.

Just because the circuit training is for people who have had an operation don’t go thinking it is not hard work. Under the watchful eye of Clodagh and Minnie we are encouraged to do each exercise to the point of failure. Lunging forward on to the operated knee is, and I know this seems a little pathetic, scary. Every time you lean forward onto it, putting your full weight through it, there is the fear in the back of your mind that it will snap. Such things do happen but nothing serious has befallen anyone so far, although three week Aniston did arrive with a worry that she had done some damage whilst moving a mirror at home.

Kicking a football seems such a long way off at the moment. All I want to be able to do is get to level four of each of the exercises dotted around the gym. These are, as I have said before, all so simple with a healthy knee but all are really tough in our current state. Zooming around them is no good either, you have to do each one with care and attention as it is so easy for your body to trick you as I found when I had been practising the forward dip off a step at home.

In my mind I had been doing it perfectly but once in the gym it was quickly pointed out that I had been cheating myself. Stepping forward, my right hip was dropping forward and down too, thus putting the foot nearer the ground and taking the strain off the left knee.

A whole week of me working on my own had thus had no beneficial effect.

Shit, shit, shittety shit. Everything is tough, everything hurts and everything is vital to a full recovery. Leaving anything out is pointless and knocks you back.

Failure, that is, doing an exercise until you can not do it any more is hard both physically and mentally, because the point at which you can’t do it anymore is also the point at which the knee most feels like it is about to pop. I am so totally aware of every twinge in the knee both when doing the exercises and when going about doing my normal every day stuff. Something has to give because at the moment I can’t think of anything normal, even walking down the street I am concentrating on keeping the knee above the second toe, making sure the stride is even and so on. Hour after hour goes by and all I think about is the knee.

Coming back from the gym is always my favourite time, the work on the bike and walking machine, you may call it a running machine, always loosens up the knee and the walk home feels almost normal. Under the old regime I never used to think about my fitness. Now it’s all I think about. Tomorrow is another day, and another step on the road to recovery.

Wembley Update

As it turns out I am not going to Wembley.

My brother did the right thing but it caused ructions with his girlfriend so I relinquished my seat at the most important football match that Everton have played this century. 

GF has kindly said that if Everton win I can go to the final. 

Signing off until a knee update.

18.68131% Towards Recovery

Seven weeks and two days since the operation, just 31 weeks and 5 days to go till my target recovery date.

The gym has changed my life. I've never been a member of a gym before, except for one year when I got free membership having done an advert for one. In that year I went to the gym three times. The first was to pick up my free membership card, the second was to  use the facilities and the third was later that same day when I returned to pick up my forgotten towel.

It was too far away, four miles, and I was playing football three times a week so didn't have time. Now though I am at the gym more often than most of the staff. I am slowly converting Ms Rable, the receptionist. I'm over-smiling and giving out cheery vibes to see if she will cheer up. It seems to be working although she may be pulling faces behind my back.

The time in the gym itself is all fairly routine now although I am trying to vary what I do a bit more. I went back to see Mr Knee this week for another check up. He was pleased with my progress and said going to the gym everyday was fine but not to do the same thing each time.

"A marathon runner doesn't run a marathon every day in training."

Sound advice from someone who knows.

Ms Rable is actually the receptionist for the leisure centre. She gives me my daily wrist band for the gym. I have no idea why we need this, but every day hundreds of people get a paper wrist band to use the gym. You go through a locked gate and then up to the gym. Ms Rable let's you in after giving you the wrist band, so it seems pointless. I'll ask about it soon.

On entering the gym there is another reception. A young chap, handily named Jim, works there. He does general cleaning and mild sexual harassment of female gym goers. You know the sort of the thing, standing right next to them when they are on the bike, or coming up behind them when they are on the weights. I have not seen anyone complain or baulk at his proximity so I have not intervened but I will keep an eye on him.

Yesterday, Saturday 31st March, I arrived at the the gym at about 11 o'clock. As I opened the door, Jim was sitting behind his desk eating a yoghurt and bran concoction.

"Hi Jim. Is that breakfast or lunch?"

He thought for a moment, looked at his food then back at me, back at his food and then a smile came across his face. "Brunch." He laughed, a big laugh. He seemed to think he had just invented the word. As I walked off I could hear him muttering to himself; "this isn't breakfast or lunch, it's brunch. hmmm. brunch."

It's been a big week with Everton getting to the Semi Final of the FA Cup. A brilliant win at Sunderland, which I watched down the pub with the Tuesday football crowd. This created the year's biggest dilemma. How to get tickets? One of my brothers had lorded it before the game saying if we got to Wembley he knew the someone or other of the FA and he'd get the tickets easy peasy. As it happened, he did. But them texted me.

"Only got two tickets. I'm taking my girlfriend." Just that. Oooh, cold.

I won't bore you with the whole back story of why this is not just wrong but so one wrong and every single person I told this too was astonished. I was telling people I didn't even know and they were amazed.

Here are some example responses:

"You're f@cking kidding." Next door neighbour.
"What is he on?" Old friend.
"He's a f@cking tw@t." Bus driver.
"No bl@@dy way. Moron." Bloke who sleeps in the park with a pram full of old newspapers.
"It's April Fool tomorrow mate." Postman.

Anyway, eventually he realised the error of his ways and changed his mind. It had reached a point where we were on the verge of never talking again, so whilst he made the error in the first place, he stood tall and made the tough call. Well done bro.

It is the second ACL Assault Course Circuit Training tomorrow. Bring it on, I'm getting ready for Wembley, but I won't be wearing this shirt...Everton FA Cup Semi Final Shirt - Wembely!

Using a Happy Sunday Tone

Joining the gym has taken over my life. I have quickly established a routine of getting Katie out the door and off to work and then going down to the gym. I'm back by 9.30 so ready for work at 10.00.

I start with a 10 minute static cycle ride. To motivate myself I am measuring how long the first mile takes and how far I get after ten minutes. In just a week there has been a marked improvement. On day one it took 7 minutes to do the first mile and just six days later I've got that down to 4 minutes. Admittedly I went exceptionally slowly on day one, not wishing to do any damage, but I'm still pleased.

After the bike, I do the leg press. I'm doing both legs separately to make sure they both get a work out. I'm doing repetitions on each leg. 43 kilos x 20, five times on the left and 88 kilos on the right. When I've done them I do a test to see what the maximum is on each leg. Minnie, the physio, has said I need to be able to leg press at least my own weight before I am allowed to go running. I weigh about 84.67 kilos so that is the target, although I really think I need to be able to press more than my weight for running as the impact must be at least another 50%. As of this morning my max on the left is 79 kilos, the right is 160, so still a bit to go.

I've never been a member of gym before so I'm also doing some of the other machines, just for fun. Some of the other people there are serious gym'ers, pumping iron like a Los Angeles beach dweller.

I got off the bike yesterday and was approached by one of the employees.

"Excuse me mate?"

"Yes."

"You need to wipe down the machine after you get off."

"Oh, ok. sorry I didn't know that."

"Did you not do the induction when you joined the gym?"

"No. I couldn't see the point in paying £20 to be told how to use equipment that I already know how to use."

"Ah well, that's where you're wrong. If you'd been on the induction, you'd have learned that you need to wipe down the machines when you're done."

"Oh, I see. You want me to pay you £20, so you can tell me how to clean the machines for you? In effect, giving you £20 so you can explain to me how to do your job for you so you can sit at the front desk reading The Sun." I said this in what Katie calls my 'happy Sunday' tone. It's a friendly joshing tone. Not confrontational but often allowing me to make a pithy point without getting punched. It doesn't always work.

"No need to get arsey mate."

"I'm not getting arsey," still maintaining happy Sunday tone, "I'm just trying to illustrate the difference between an induction which I'd be happy to pay for, and an introduction to gym rules which should be free because it helps you, me and all the gym users. Can you see my point?"

"As I said before mate, no need to get arsey." Happy Sunday tone is now a bit strained.

"If you call me mate one more time, you'll see how arsey I can get."

He shook his head, turned and walked away, as though I was a naughty child and he was a bored teacher who had more important kids to attend to. I got some tissues, provided free, and wiped down the machine.

When I get home I have to enter all my stats before I forget them. Obviously it would be easy to take a pen and paper down with me to note these and not rely on my terrible memory but I rarely do the easy thing. I've set up an excel spreadsheet for the cycle and the leg press stats. I've also set up graphs to monitor the progress on these. They are, even though I say so myself, works of art. The trouble is, that I spend about 30 minutes at the gym, and then about an hour doing my stats. Something is wrong there.

Apropos of nothing, I found the largest bran flake of all time in my breakfast yesterday. I've attached a photo herewith. The coin is a 5p piece, there's a normal size flake to compare and I promise there is no photoshop jiggery pokery here.

You Either Went to the Gym Today...

Yesterday I joined the gym. I did it online, it took a couple of minutes. Almost too easy. It also gave me the option to not have the induction session. This costs £20, and I had been informed by the woman behind the bullet proof glass at the leisure centre* that it was compulsory.

(*Leisure Centre - why? Does anyone actually go there for leisure?)

I limped down to the gym, using the journey as my warm up; little steps, lunges, high knees, back flicks etc. I had in my bag my printed membership form which I could convert to a plastic card on arrival. Or so I thought.

"Hello." I was putting on my happy Sunday voice and face. The receptionist, a more miserable looking person it would be hard to imagine, looked up from Grazia.

"What?"

I handed her my paperwork and persevered with smiling. "Can I have a membership card please?"

"The person who does that is on lunch. You can use the gym now and they'll be here when you come out." She pointed the way. I followed her outstretched over-manicured nail to the changing room.

The gym is well stocked with all the equipment a post-operative knee patient needs and then some. I had decided to use the gym just for stuff I couldn't do at home and so I started off on the static bike. I did a nice gentle ten minutes on that and then moved onto the leg press. This is the machine that allows you to lift weights with your legs. That doesn't mean that a trouser press allows you to lift weights with your trousers, although that would be fun.

I did the same weights that I'd done at the hospital and finished off with a further bit of cycling. I felt good, felt that this was something I could do to speed up my recovery and maybe catch up with Ms 3-Week-Aniston. Not that I'm competitive at all.

On the way out I saw that Ms Rable was still at the desk. "Is the membership card issuing supremo around yet?" I thought a joke might lighten her mood but she was on the phone to her mum.

"Sorry Mum, I've got to go...yes bloody work." She put the phone down, closed her magazine with a slap and looked up. "Sorry? What did you say?"

"If it is not too much trouble, it would be really fab if I could exchange this piece of home printed paper for one of your rather lovely membership cards. Is the person who can make this happen in the building?"

She picked up the phone. "Sean? A gentleman," she said the word gentleman as though she was actually saying piece of poo, "wants a membership card...yes...there aren't any...under the what?...(she moved some stuff around)...oh...yeah...me?...oh ok then."

She slammed down the phone, obviously been working on the free weights I thought, and grabbed my paperwork. She started typing, wrote a number on the back of a membership card and handed everything back to me.

"Thank you. I didn't realise you could do it. I thought it was a specialist job for Sean."

"No, anyone can do it."

"Oh, but earlier  you indicated that the person who issued membership cards wasn't around."

"Did I?"

"Yes."

"I don't think so."

I dropped the subject and turned to leave. Blocking my way were two hefty blokes in their 50s. I hobbled round them and overheard one say to the other: "I'm just going outside for a fag. I'll see you in the gym."

I was in front of him and we exited the building together. I should have carried on walking but I'm an idiot. I turned to him.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear you say that you were going to have a cigarette and then go to the gym."

"Yeah."

"Well, I know it's none of my business, but you do realise that if you gave up cigarettes the benefit to your health would probably outdo anything that you do in the gym. You could stop paying for the gym and combine that with the money you've saved on cigarettes and maybe have a really nice treat, a holiday maybe."

"You know you said it was none of your business?"

"Yes."

"Correct."

ACL Class - Circuit training for invalids

The text came on Friday to confirm my appointment for Monday morning at 8.30am for my first ACL class.

I woke up early and got ready for the cab to pick me up. I was a little anxious about getting there on time.

"Hi. Can a book a cab for 7.30 tomorrow morning."

"Yes. From where?"

I gave her the details of starting point and destination. She asked for my credit card details.

"Thank you. Monday at 7.30am. We'll do our best."

"What do you mean you'll do your best?"

"Well it is rush hour."

"Yes, but I am booking it now, 24 hours before I need it. You must know how many cabs you have on the rota at that time, and how many are currently booked, and where they are going. It is not your first day of business, so surely you know if the cab will be with me on time or not."

"It is rush hour. We'll do our very best."

"Ok. I'll do my best to pay. Bye."

As it happened I needn't have worried for the cab arrived only ten minutes late. I had already factored in a delay of 30 minutes so all was well. The driver turned out to be what Katie and I call a chatty hunter. You couldn't shut him up.

As I opened the door. "Morning. Oh dear, what you done to your leg. I've had trouble with my back for years. My brother did his acl, but he had the op and he was fine. He'd dead now. I had a friend in my old job, I used to work in the City, well he had the ACL op. Never walked again. I'm going ski-ing next week. Granada. Dropping the girls at the beach and me and my mate go ski-ing for four days. I hope my back's alright." I closed the door and settled in for the journey.

After a while I stopped listening to cabbie, and tried to work out if he was wearing a wig.

At the hospital I sat and waited as the other class members arrived. First up was a Spanish sounding chap, not hair bun. This one had had his op at least three months ago. Then came Jennifer Aniston's younger not quite as good looking sister. Then they came thick and fast and I couldn't assign identities to them all.

We got the call over the tannoy and I followed the old hands into the gym. It is like a gym at a proper gym but not as swanky and with just one or two versions of each item of equipment.

Some people, like kids at school, already had their PE stuff on. In fact they all did except me. I got changed while they all went through a simple warm up. Not dissimilar to the one we did in the pool, but a bit quicker. By the time the warm up was over I had got changed and joined the queue to pick up our sheets.

These consist of the all the exercises we need to do to get better, listed down the left hand side, with weekly sections going across for you to monitor your progress through the levels of each exercise.

In charge of ACL class were Clodagh and Minnie so at least I knew someone. I didn't know if we were allowed to chat so I just began doing some exercises. Clodagh and Minnie went round monitoring every one and making sure we were comfortable with the things we had to do and checking if we had any problems since we last saw them.

I told Minnie that I was concerned that my knee had been clicking a bit recently, in a very similar way to before the op. It felt like the the same click that Mr Knee had shown me when he manoeuvered my knee before the op. I'd been worried about this for a few days but had not discussed it with Katie. We're not doctors and I thought there was no reason for us both to have sleepless nights about the op not working. Minnie put my mind at rest;

"All knees click. It's probably a release of pressure or something like that. But keep an eye on it. If it's really painful when it clicks that is a different thing."

I breathed a little easier and got on with things. My step forward off the step is very weak. You stand on a step with your injured leg, and try to put your other foot on the floor in front of you. Try it. It's simple if you're not injured but with the injury it felt like my knee was going to collapse under me.

I went over to the weight machine. You load up the weights, sit in a chair, sort of thing, and push to lift the weights. The idea is you need to be able to lift, with your bad leg, at least your body weight before you are allowed to start running again. the aim in the end is to lift as much as your good leg.

Good leg managed 160 kg, twice my body weight. I was quite pleased. Injured leg could only do 60 but I thought my patella was going to shoot off as I lowered the weight back down. I'd say it is comfortable with 40 so I've got a lot of work to do in the next six weeks. Minnie advised joining a gym. I thought back to my totally unsuccessful attempt to do this last week and gulped.


She left me on the weight machine and Jennifer Aniston came and sat on the static bike. When she'd arrived she was walking quite normally and I assumed she was one of the physios.

As she sat on the bike she asked me how I'd done the injury. I told her. She too had done hers playing football. I decided it was too early in our recovery relationship to say I'm not a fan of women's football. I was glad I didn't.

"When did you have your operation?" She asked as she burned through another kilometer on the bike.

"Five weeks ago." I thought, she'll be impressed with how well I'm doing. Look, 40 kilos on the weights. "How about you?"

"Three weeks." I thought I'd misheard her.

"Sorry? How long?"

"Three weeks." I nearly fell off my chair. How can she be doing so well after just three weeks? Alright she's half my age so the body recovers quicker but this is nuts. In a funk of maleness I loaded up the weights on the machine and pushed. It didn't move. I closed my eyes, scrunched up my face and pushed. My ears were popping when Clodagh came over.

"Alright Daniel?"

"Erm yeah, I think the machine's broken."

She looked at the weights. "No I think you've got too much weight on." She adjusted it and I pushed that 20 kilos up like it was nothing.

From then on I just felt like a failure. I kept mumbling to myself three bloody weeks, my arse.

Minnie booked me in for a another visit in two weeks and I made my way to the bus.

On board I sat in front of three ladies in their 60s. Their accents indicated that they were from abroad, Middle East I think, and I thought they may be on holiday but it quickly became apparent that they lived here.

"It takes two years to get a visa to move to Australia." Said the leader of the troup.

"I know." Chimed in her friends.

"But here, five minutes and you're in, with benefits. Crazy. We let anyone in."

"I know." Chimed her friends.

I turned round. I knew I shouldn't have but I couldn't stop myself. I was still fuming about three week Aniston.

"I'm sorry ladies. I couldn't help overhearing." I was addressing the ring leader. "You seem unhappy that it is so easy for people to move here. I feel proud that we take people from all over the world, find a place for them, make them feel welcome, and give them a chance of a decent life. You disagree?"

"It's too easy. They let anyone in." She adopted another foreign accent. "I'm poor and my country is poor. Can I come and live off you?" Now she put on what I think was her version of a posh English accent. "Oh yes, please come in. You can have my house." Now back in her own accent. "Disgusting."

I should have turned away.

"Forgive me, but based on your accent you weren't born here. Surely you have benefited from the very system to which you are objecting."

She stared at me as though I had just shown her my genitals. (I hadn't.) She rang the bell.

"Come on, I'm not riding a bus with a racist."

The bus stopped. They got off.