As I grew up, I moved a lot. And I mean a lot: we travelled, change countries, swam, did sport… I often went too far, both for my parents’ standards, such as when I swam out to the open ocean to rescue what turned out to be a baby shark, and for my own, jumping off stuff, cloning too high, risking too much with wrong people and situations. I would take off, usually with a car, but sometimes on foot or on a bike, and just go go go…. Coming back was inevitably a drag.
It is therefore only suitable that they diagnose hypermobility for me. Look it up, in many regards, one could hardly complain. I’ve always been superbendy, and it wasn’t ’cause I was fit, it was hypermobility.
What it means now is that a simple sprain ankle takes months to heal, and in the meantime (since I refuse to just sit like I did for two weeks) various bits and pieces give way, electric shocks in one foot, mini painful fracturettes in my thumb.. A joke really.
Had I fulfilled my wish of a cottage in Yorkshire on some moors, with my dog, I’d be f@cked right now… I can barely walk for more than 30 minutes on flat ground, I have to be careful with the smallest bumps in the soil… Oh I would have had a field day with those moors. And driving would be out of the question, so it’s a good job we don’t need a car in Cambridge. Not being able to cycle is a bit of a drag, mainly because buses are limited and expensive. But on the while, I was lucky even in my ailment: living in a flat, neverchanging, pretty and placid town is perfect for an increasingly crippled old mare like me.