At Least Afloat

I woke up at 2am to the sound of my own whimpering.

I’d twisted my foot yesterday whilst running – I didn’t quite miss the kerb. I fell. Were I a five-year-old child, I would have cried from the pain, but I’m not, and I didn’t – I dusted myself off and continued running. No, no, no, the crying came in the small hours, when I realised I was miles away from Mum, Dad, and, as it turns out, my EHIC.

My foot was in the worst pain I’d ever known it to be, and there was precious little I could do to make it comfortable. I checked if it was swollen. No. Could I put weight on it? Yes, I could walk, in pain. I put on some socks, and lay in bed, still crying, probably more from being alone and in pain than in pain, although the pain was pretty bad. I don’t cry often. Not as much as I used to. It’s usually a sign that I’ve learnt how to feel again. I’m healing.

I had to talk to myself like my mother would. I had to persuade myself, Honey, you’re not alone – You have Timothy on the shelf above, you have your elf (I’ve had this guy since time immemorial – don’t judge, he rocks) beside you, and so you don’t have to hold yourself. Loneliness is cold, did you know that? You hug yourself, and you develop a coat of frost. I don’t know how to describe it.

Anyway, the only way to appease the inner toddler was to put on my off-brand oodie and get out the Beachcomber’s Windowsill, and a couple of old voice messages from someone whose words are the waves on a misty morning. This person is incredibly important to me. We’ve been through thick and thin. If only they knew. It was soothing through sound until 5am, as well as a few messages from a friend of mine who shall henceforth be called the Adventurer, because that is exactly what he does – He goes forth, gets into all kinds of scrapes, and then, goodness only knows how, gets out of them like he was never in them. He is currently also in France, teaching, and increasing the stock of his future New York Times Bestselling memoirs. If he’s adventuring, that means all is well in he world.

I slept a little eventually, got up, managed to just miss the 7:51 bus, waited for the next that never materialised due to roadworks apparently and conveniently starting en route. Could they have waited?

Now, I cannot be late. I’m standing in for the boss, after all. I have a postman to greet! So I got, for the 4th time in my life, an Uber, for just over 10 euros.

The driver’s conversation was the panacea I didn’t know I needed. What a lovely, genuine gentleman. He complimented me on my French, and said I expressed myself very well, talked about multilingualism, communication beyond the spoken word, its non-universality, different expressions and their history… And finally, he said I’m a very talented girl, it was a pleasure to have this journey with me, hoped I’ll have a lovely day, and left me with his card, if ever I should need another lift.

And all in all, I did have a lovely day.

I called my parents as I got in, to ask their professional medical advice on the matter of my right foot, but then I was interrupted at different intervals by the postman, and a colleague, who both weighed in, too, like sweethearts. I actually need to report on my condition to the postman tomorrow…

I had to explain to my dad that I was “Queen of the Office” whilst my boss was on holiday. He didn’t let me hear the last of that, as you can imagine. “I suppose there’s one advantage to being Queen of the Office, with your foot, and that is, that you can get people to kiss it.” Oh Dad. No one was subjected to that, I promise. And nobody carried me in a sedan, either. I’ll take the HRH before my name, maybe, though.

Work was mainly emails, training documents, and the decision to sort out our, as it turns out, not-mound of keys. I nearly fell asleep towards the end, but I did alright, on the whole.

On the bus home, I stood in the centre of the bus, which is the part where it concertinas, as our buses need to be able to fold around corners, aware that this would be a nerve-wracking journey. A kid decided to join me, all joy. He took “nerve-wracking” as “exciting”. He smiled at me, and I smiled back. It was a nice, almost conspiratorial, moment. A kindred spirit moment.

I got back home early, having left work early, having started early. My landlady had offered to drive us all to go shopping. It was lovely. We drove and talked about life and opportunities, joked, and finally shared dinner. I said to her at the end of the day “Merci pour une belle fin de journée,” in most improper French, now that I think of it. But the sentiment I meant every bit. A beautiful end, to a beautiful day.

So, my advice.

1. My advice, to you who are lonely, or lost, is to listen to this absolute gem of a song, once again by the band that sings of home to me. It is called Fuel Up . The important words are “Home is only a feeling you get in your mind, from the people you love and you travel beside.”
2. No swelling and no bruising means you’ve probably just twanged a ligament, so no, you don’t get your Marianne Dashwood moment, sorry, but you will also heal quicker (probably).
3. DON’T forget your EHIC/GHIC at home (by that I mean back in Blighty).
4. Count your blessings. Timothy urged me to put this in on behalf of him and Orin, the main support crew for a youngster who lost about 16 years of age this morning.

All my love. You are not alone ❤