Casualty of Rugby War


Well, A&E.  Who would have thought that I’d be here for myself, again?  It’s really clear that they don’t want casual ailments rocking up to their doors.  I’m risking it and hoping that Minor Injuries go easy on the testing.  I reckon it’s a torn calf muscle and the pop was the expulsion of gas.  It happened last night as I was training.  Not my usual 5k run, but an RFU refereeing course.  I put myself on it in the hope that I’ll be able to learn more about rugby alongside the coaching that I do.  Plus, when asked to red at festivals, I’ll have a little badge or some stickers to say that I’m allowed to.  Of course, the ACME whistle, engraved with England’s rose may go someway as proof of my alleged ability. 

It was a quiet morning at the shift handover and I’d been the first in triage and then the first through the two sets of doors.  I’ve been through those doors many times and not always for me.  But yes, this time, selfishly, was all about me.  Me and my gastrocnemius muscle tear.  At least it wasn’t a rupture. 

They say it will take six weeks to heal.  That’s essentially Christmas day.  I’ll be throwing away my crutches like the leper healed by Jesus, himself.  I probably won’t be doing my attempt at a can-can in Paris as that’s three weeks away.  Luckily, it’s only an overnight stay so I can pack accordingly.  I say that, but I always go over the top.  I like to be prepared for all possible eventualities.  But now, I shall take nothing but a single change of clothing and this journal.  Plus, two pens.  And the ink bottles.  A phone charger and cables.  A power-bank.  And travel adapter.  Bluetooth earphones.  My tablet.  Earphone splitter.  And that should be it.  I know I won’t be studying as such so I can leave all my university paraphernalia behind.  This is great as I’ll now be using a rucksack with my crutches…. 

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