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Those expecting to see me perform the Elliott Dance (free demos on all PMA workshops with Keith Elliott as tutor) will be sorely disappointed over the next few weeks. No gymnastics, minor or otherwise for me. I’ve just torn some fibres in my Achilles tendon – fishing.
Stupidly, I made the mistake of admitting the true reason I’m hobbling around with a stick. Now, if I’d said it was playing a particularly arduous game of squash or badminton (the most common cause of such an injury), it would have evoked much sympathy. But when I say that a mackerel caused it, it provokes not compassion but chuckles.
I won’t go into the story (though I did catch the mackerel). However, it also means that my training workshops over the next few weeks will be rather sedate affairs.
I’m not very good at sitting still. Every few minutes, I tend to jump up to write on a flipchart, check on people’s progress, and even act out charades when encouraging a slightly slow group on headline ideas. No such pyrotechnis now.
Getting up from a chair has to be executed with extreme care. I’m walking like the figure on the weathervane at Lord’s. I’m going to need to rethink my training; maybe, try a more cerebral approach.
Our postgraduate course starts next week and though I no longer work as course tutor (Roberta Cohen’s much more diligent, caring and patient than I am), I like to get involved on the news and subbing parts of the course.
Except I can’t scoot off to an exhibition with the eager young things while I’m walking like Igor. The prospect of trudging round Earls Court or 02 to find stories is out of the question for several weeks.
Some wag suggested I phone up and arrange a mobility scooter. “Maybe you could even get one of those little baskets on the front to put the press releases in,” he said helpfully.
Doesn’t quite fit in with the image of a thrusting, hard-drinking hack asking incisive questions, does it?