These pretty piccies are from gorgeous summery afternoon on Saturday, which was first spent on Wafu deck sharing couch (due to overpopulation) with random elderly Flemish couple (I proceeded to ask them if there was really a country called Phlegm?), knocking back an array of cocktails, dressed in skimpy skirt, fake tan and new Luella sandals, gazing out at glistening ocean and continually having to inconspicuously wipe off upper-lip sweat. This was followed by walk along promenade, dodging runners, dog pooh and falling over from too many cocktails.
So, the most embarrassing part of my weekend was the email I received on Saturday from my physio saying, 'If you'd wanted me to hold your hand why didn't you just ask?' (You need to read Stairway to Heaven to get that – because he clearly read it!). Anyway. Apologised profusely for using him as focal point of my post, not EVER thinking he would read it. He still offered to come with me to terrifying injection appointment on Wednesday. I'm going to hold him to that as this time I really do need something to hold on to, whether it be a hand or a Hunter's Dry. I won't give you the gory details of what I have to have done to treat my Patella Tendonitis, but let's just say it involves drawing blood from arm and injections into my knees. The thought of which caused me to gag at the appointment last week and my surgeon to thrust a bucket in front of my face.
'I'm always prepared for an array of reactions to treatment,' he pointed out, smiling.
He then proceeded to remind me of the time I fainted when he turned on the video of my knee operation. The sheer sight on the interior of my own knee had caused me to black out and almost roll off the bed. When I came round he was sitting comfortably in front of me, legs crossed, sipping leisurely on a cup of tea, my mother flirting with him outrageously. They both gave me a little wave. Had any of them even noticed I'd been unconscious? Hot Assistant was standing by my head:
HA: 'Are you alright?'
Olive, staring dreamily into HA's eyes: 'I am now!'
He quickly left the room.
Anyway, not sure if it's some form of Placebo Effect, but ever since that utter terror I felt when I was informed about these injections on Wednesday, my knees seem to be feeling better... That could also be because this weekend (unfortunately) involved minimal-to-no speaker dancing, or tactical heel balancing. But more gentle promenade walks, and lots of drinks on couches in the sunshine. No strain on the knees. Just on the liver.
Friday night, saw my wonderful Mummy and Step Daddy who were in CT just for uno night. Friday: was so desperate for glass of bubbly after taxing, stressful and seriously long week at work. Needed a drink so badly I cracked open revolting bottle of Ginger Beer-flavoured Hooch (which I got free at work) in the bath. Met parents at Vineyard Hotel for drink then decide to to take them over to Wijnhuis for a spot of dins. Half way through succulent calamari –
'Another bubbly, please,' I say toasting my sted dad, then sarcastically: 'Shot gun driving home!!!'
Mother: 'You are driving home!'
Olive: 'Oops.'
Step Dad giggles in the corner and orders another wine.
Mother: 'How many have you had, Darling?'
Step Dad and Olive: 'Me?'
Olive: 'I lost count after round 5. It's Friday, Mummy! Just let me and Step Daddy have a glass of Port for dessert.'
Glass of Port later, Step Daddy and I giggling childishly over #BraaiMovies on Twitter (we definitely came up with the funniest two: The Wors Whisperer; and Justin Weber: Never Say Never... Although I've got to hand it to the guy who made up Forrest Rump; Star Wors: Return of the Rib-Eye; Steaks on a Plane; and Grillers in the Mist.). Mother, who is too British, doesn't get it. 'What's a bry?' she ask, and ushers us out the restaurant, annoyed.
Mother (with posh Pommie accent): 'You two are hopeless. You're both blotto! Absolutely gaga.'
Olive, singing loudly: 'We were born this way!!!'
Me and Step Daddy collapse into fit of giggles, since 60-year-old retired Step Father actually listens to Lady Gaga in his car and so he got the joke. Mother storms off angrily to car and I continue cackling hysterically as I try squish large Step Dad into tiny backseat of Yaris, who ends up landing face first, cracking his glasses on the seatbelt. Mother clings to car door for her life as I drive us back to the hotel, and leaps out the car the second I stop, thankful to have made it home alive.
Needless to say she rang me on the way home to check if I was ok and safe but then shouted at me for speaking on the phone while I was driving!! Mothers....
On a dimmer note, I'm having my peformance review at work today. I woudn't be worried if I was being scored on my oustanding performance on the Tiger Tiger speaker... I'd no doubt score in the high thousands and be promoted to Cage Dancer. Unfortunately this is for work, taking into account exhausted weekend-hangover Mondays, mid-week benders, and Phuza Thursdays, in addition to long lunches with Vivi&Lola and leaving on the dot of 5 to make
No comments:
Post a Comment