The damage

As predicted, Mark came home last night, took one look at my knee and put the kibosh on the idea of going out for dinner.

As a result, I spent just over two hours in my local A&E department waiting to be dealt with. The triage nurse, who I saw after about half an hour's wait confirmed that I'd need stitches, so I sat in the busy, noisy waiting room and, well, I waited. I'd sent Mark home, because there was no point in both of us sitting there doing nothing – I thought he'd be best of getting some dinner – but then he came back with a book for me to read, but instead we sat there and cuddled. I was feeling rather weepy, which is fairly unlike me – I suppose it must have been delayed shock – and my knee was starting to stiffen up and become sore.

Eventually I was shown in to a cubicle, where I climbed up onto a leatherette bed and a nurse practitioner peeled back the bloody bandage wrapped round my leg. Apparently I was lucky to have missed severing the tendon by a matter of millimetres, but as it was I needed five stitches, three to the large gash at the top and another two below. My leg is now swathed in stitches, steristrips and a big gauze plaster.

I'm under strict instructions not to do any exercise for the next 10 days or so. On the principle that you miss most that which you cannot have, I find myself craving an early morning jog.