Rugby Spring

My husband is refereeing a rugby match at the moment. He does it most Saturdays of the year, as, thanks to the fact that we are now a global village, there is rugby ON most Saturdays of the year. The Tri-Nations, the Super 14, the Six Nations, sometimes the World Cup... Thankfully he is not so addicted that he referees random matches - the Boks or Ireland and Scotland have to be playing. If they're not, he merely watches!

Today the Boks are doing better, and Bryce Laurence has been receiving some approbation from the peanut gallery in my sitting room. Jon knows the most obscure arcana of rugby law, and being him, knows most of this years Experimental Law Variations too. I'm just letting it all wash over me...

Falling Apart

My hips are aching horribly today. They have been for a while now. I need to make an appointment with an orthopod, get an x-ray, check that it's all ok and not the start of arthritis, or, worse, that the bone isn't necrotising... That sounds so alarmist, but apparently it can happen on old breaks. I hope I just need to lose the 8 extra kilos I've been carrying around since I had Jamie, and perhaps actually do some exercise now and then, and that will sort it.

I remember when I broke the hip, being told I might have pain "in 20 years or so". It seemed so immensely far away then. Well, it's over 16 years now, and I haven't done a single exercise I was told to do, to build up the muscle etc, so it's my own fault. It's not like I lug great flabby legs around, mind you, but there were all these specific things I should have done. And the fact is that I am off balance, just a bit, I limp when I'm tired and I over-compensate by placing more weight on my left leg. Hence that "good" leg now aches pretty much as much as the "bad" right one.

Rant rant rant. I'll call the orthopaedic guy. Soonish.

Pooh Days

This morning, I took Nicky's nappy off preparatory to dressing him. Stupidly, I got sidetracked by James before I replaced the nappy, and three seconds later I realised there was a ribbon of poo hanging precariously from Nicky's bum. I stepped back to look for the main part of said action, and realised immediately I'd found it without trying. The underside of ones bare foot is a horrible place to locate a missing No 2. Especially if, like me, you then lose your balance and step heavily on another, hitherto clean, patch of carpet. I lost it a bit, swore fruitily, and then had the pleasure of cleaning carpet (and duvet. Don't dump a pooey 1 year old onto a duvet) to the soundtrack of James chanting "Sit Sit Sit, buddy hell" as he bounced cheerily round the room.

We were late for playschool. Again!