Thanks to my 'off' yesterday, this weeks training regime is totally stuffed and I hobble off to the bus instead. L's concerned but I'm sure it's just a bruise. After all I've had plenty similar in my football days and of course I'm a man, so I wouldn’t consult a doctor unless they laid the ambulance on especially. Men, or should I say most men, just shrug it off when they get injured and keep going. We wouldn't knock off work to snuggle up with the cat and spend the day with the Hugh Grant box set and a tub of Maltesers now would we.
By the time I get the bus home again, I think I've perfected my hobble pretty well.
In the evening, it's Doggo's 2nd Christmas party in three days, MD gatecrashes this one and thoroughly enjoys his disruptive self. We have races and 'fun' things, some of which aren't as bad as they sound and some that are worse. There's a big tub of Quality Street which is a disaster because, and I've never liked Quality Street partly because of this, they're nearly all hard centres and with the temperature hovering around zero we're seriously into teeth breaking territory.
Doggo wins a tug, which as soon as we get home, MD claims as his. Boys eh?
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