About a week after I have broken my arm - plaster from wrist to elbow - term ends and I am due to go to Ramsgate with Nan. No one at home is very sympathetic about my injury - it was my own fault and I just had to lump it. I am sad that I won't be able to go swimming in the sea (one of my all-time favourite activities) as the plaster has to stay on for 6 weeks. It is a nasty itchy thing (even the frequent use of a knitting needle for scratching doesn't help) and now has many obscenities written and drawn on it - Ah! The originality of youth.
But Nan, being a fellow hedonist feels my pain; decides there is no reason why a broken arm shouldn't stop me swimming. Every time I go into the sea - four or five times a day whatever the weather - my arm is wrapped up in several plastic bags and secured with elastic bands. The cast does limit my marine activities: front crawl isn't feasible - you end up hitting your head with the cast quite often - although a sedate (slightly lop-sided) breast-stroke is just about manageable. The plaster does get a bit soggy, but usually dries out over-night ready for the next day's dunking.
Strangely the broken arm never healed properly (it is thinner than the other one and I can't put any weight on it - those who know me may come and inspect it). I sometimes wonder if it was the swimming that did it
Showing posts with label broken arm. Show all posts
Showing posts with label broken arm. Show all posts
Sunday, 26 February 2012
Saturday, 25 February 2012
Me and the broken arm
This story is dedicated to Jana.
It is summer - so sadly no more hockey or netball. How I miss wearing those lovely divided skirts and thick socks held up with elastic garters (actually cut the garters - they were excruciatingly painful) - not for us those wussy shin pads that are now compulsory - we were the Jean Claude Van Damme of hockey teams and proud of it).
Summer meant athletics - which I hated with a vengeance for a variety of reasons. The chief being that we had to wear gym knickers and a short airtex tops - so not a good look for the vast majority of girls - the boys were luckier and got to wear white short and shirts so were able to cover up a bit more - it was not unlike the Degas painting The Young Spartans Exercising. Then the joy of sports day - having to sign up for events you had never done before - generally for a very good reason. Failing to get to the sign-up sheet, within the first ten minutes of it being posted, could mean an afternoon of extreme terror (rather than just the run-of-the-mill sports day humiliation). Inevitably the only events remaining would be either shot putt (not possible - I had no arm muscles- whereas now I could give Madonna a run for her money), javelin (unpleasant to be responsible for the near-death experiences of classmates) and long jump (risk of sand in gym pants - exfoliating, but not in a good way). I would try to sign up for one of the running events that involved going round the track about 50 times - it had a certain Zen quality or hurdles (I can think of no good reason why).
All the equipment was set out for sports day on the playing fields; we had been warned not to go anywhere near it unless with a teacher. It is lunchtime; having listened to the dire warnings my friend Coral and I saunter down the field to 'have a look' at the instruments of torture laid out on the grass. We decide to race over the hurdles. I extremely competitive and determined to win - I jump too soon and fall. My hand doesn't look like it belongs to my arm, it sticks out at a funny angle and hurts like hell.
In the sick room the Deputy Head is called for her opinion (she of the plimsoll which was used to hit bad girls). She grasps my hand - pumps it up and down - says that it isn't broken and I should get back to Latin (as goodness knows I need to get those gerundives sorted). I faint, Mum is telephoned to come and take me to hospital where my broken arm is put in plaster.
I get a starring role in the next day's assembly to my chagrin. The Deputy Head talks about casting out bad apples from barrels so not to spoil the rest and a certain girl who now has a broken arm - as I was the only person sporting a cast it was obviously me and I endured a few days of being called 'hurdle girl' and such. The only positive thing I can say about this experience is that I did not have to take part in sports day.
It is summer - so sadly no more hockey or netball. How I miss wearing those lovely divided skirts and thick socks held up with elastic garters (actually cut the garters - they were excruciatingly painful) - not for us those wussy shin pads that are now compulsory - we were the Jean Claude Van Damme of hockey teams and proud of it).
Summer meant athletics - which I hated with a vengeance for a variety of reasons. The chief being that we had to wear gym knickers and a short airtex tops - so not a good look for the vast majority of girls - the boys were luckier and got to wear white short and shirts so were able to cover up a bit more - it was not unlike the Degas painting The Young Spartans Exercising. Then the joy of sports day - having to sign up for events you had never done before - generally for a very good reason. Failing to get to the sign-up sheet, within the first ten minutes of it being posted, could mean an afternoon of extreme terror (rather than just the run-of-the-mill sports day humiliation). Inevitably the only events remaining would be either shot putt (not possible - I had no arm muscles- whereas now I could give Madonna a run for her money), javelin (unpleasant to be responsible for the near-death experiences of classmates) and long jump (risk of sand in gym pants - exfoliating, but not in a good way). I would try to sign up for one of the running events that involved going round the track about 50 times - it had a certain Zen quality or hurdles (I can think of no good reason why).
All the equipment was set out for sports day on the playing fields; we had been warned not to go anywhere near it unless with a teacher. It is lunchtime; having listened to the dire warnings my friend Coral and I saunter down the field to 'have a look' at the instruments of torture laid out on the grass. We decide to race over the hurdles. I extremely competitive and determined to win - I jump too soon and fall. My hand doesn't look like it belongs to my arm, it sticks out at a funny angle and hurts like hell.
In the sick room the Deputy Head is called for her opinion (she of the plimsoll which was used to hit bad girls). She grasps my hand - pumps it up and down - says that it isn't broken and I should get back to Latin (as goodness knows I need to get those gerundives sorted). I faint, Mum is telephoned to come and take me to hospital where my broken arm is put in plaster.
I get a starring role in the next day's assembly to my chagrin. The Deputy Head talks about casting out bad apples from barrels so not to spoil the rest and a certain girl who now has a broken arm - as I was the only person sporting a cast it was obviously me and I endured a few days of being called 'hurdle girl' and such. The only positive thing I can say about this experience is that I did not have to take part in sports day.
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