Schools are closed, motorways are empty, people are panic-buying bread, beer and lubricant in case they get snowed in. I know that I for one will be spending the day staring out of the window watching students at the University over the road falling comically on their self-important backsides.
While we're on the subject of self important backsides...
A long-time friend of mine once shared my Blog on Twitter/Facebook with the words...
'Do you ever feel like you're a massive walking disaster*? Well spare a through for The Chimping Dandy, who really is.'
And in a way, he's right - I do have a fair collection of stories that involve gross physical harm taking place on or about my person. Many involve motorcycles, some, such as today's, involve a lack of care or attention, fewer still involve paint, but they're all true and up to a point, educational - I do idiotic stuff to myself so that you don't have to.
P.S. Sorry there wasn't a Blog yesterday, I was in London, trying not to get mown down by Janet Street-Porter
I'm a bit of a rambler, in most senses of the word, obviously, you all know that I could quite happily drive an echidna to suicide with my opinionated diatribe about the true meaning of Ridley Scott's Bladerunner, but in this case I'm talking about wandering about, in the Great British countryside, with a packed lunch and a flask of weak lemon drink. It doesn't take much to convince me that I need fresh air and I am more than happy to drag my progeny with me (Mrs Dandy never requires much convincing, of anything really, she what we used to refer to, in the Olden Days as 'a game old bird').
This particular day we had decided that it would be a great idea to walk the three or so miles to a nice country pub, have a spot of lunch, maybe sample the steeped fruit of the hop and get the charabanc home. So far, so; start of the Enid Blyton book entitled 'Five get drunk and upset some cows'. As has been recounted previously, we used to live a lark's belch from the 'Cundry' so I loaded the Micro-Dandy into his papoose, hefted him onto my back, gathered the clan and we set off.
We'd just left civilisation and started trudging across farmland when the terrain got a bit lumpy, then it became bumpy, and after a while we had to invent a new word, so we chose 'Rabbity', as in -
'I say Muriel, look at all the bally holes in this meadow,'
'Yes Tarquin, it's distinctly Rabbity'
So, we wandered on, through hedges and ditches, honouring the country code at every turn, right up until the point where I put my foot down a rabbit hole. I started to fall backwards, but realised that I had a small person, effectively in my rucksack, so I turned right to try and land on my side. Well, I say I turned, most of me turned, about 97% I think.
My right foot took the unilateral decision to stay pointing in the same direction. It didn't 'really' hurt when I hit the ground - I mean, it hurt, don't get me wrong, and there was definately a wet *crunch* as it happened, but it was more of an 'Oww! you Bugger' than a 'Quick! call the Air Ambulance'. With some assistance, the papoose was removed and the Micro-Dandy checked for ouchies and boo-boos, of which there were, luckily, none.
We continued the walk, at a slightly reduced pace, and finally made our way back to civilisation. The discomfort in my ankle was increasing slowly (I was wearing proper, supportive, walking boots though, which helped) and decided that maybe, it would be for the best, if we cut the walk short and just went home.
Walking home (as it was a Sunday and the buses were once every nine hours) did my minor injury no real favours and I spent the rest of the afternoon lying on the sofa feeling a mixture of nausea and self-pity. Every moan was answered with:
'If it hurts so much, go to the hospital.' Louder and louder, with more and more exasperation behind it every time.
I finally thought that the only thing that could take my mind off the pain away would be a catering pack of Cadburys' Minstrels. Obviously, I was much too weak to make it the three yards to the kitchen, so Mrs Dandy was dispatched on the provender run. She gave me (threw) the chocolates with more force than was strictly neccessary, and I ate them, one after another until the oversize bag was empty.
Eventually, it was time for bed, and Mrs Dandy went to the door, opened it, turned on the stairs light and said,
'Are you coming?'
'I don't think I can get up,'
After a series of exasperated sighs, she came back and helped me up - I was really quite uncomfortable at this point, and she helped me up the stairs. About halfway up, I fell to my knees, suddenly feeling dizzy.
'Come on,' Said Mrs Dandy, 'You're nearly there.'
And she was right, in a way - With a noise that has since been likened to a herring giving birth to a rhinocerous, I threw up the entire packet of Minstrels, my breakfast, and a selection of things that, to this day, I don't remember eating. This all managed to just miss my Dear Wife, but did mean we had to redecorate the stairs. Her reaction to this was priceless, she said;
'Oh my God. I'm so sorry - I didn't think you were really in pain, I thought you were putting it on!'
I leave you with a picture of the offending injury, the day after, when the swelling had gone down somewhat.
And will say that Monday's blog will be about the time I trod on a penguin (there may be photos again).
*For some reason, whenever I re-read that, I usually replace the W, A and L with F, U and C...