It's not just Christmas...

…it’s Walk like a Pirate Day. Or more, Walk like a Pirate Weekend. Arrrr.
Since Thursday night, I’ve been a hobbling one-legged spectacle to behold, and my trip to Germany is somewhat in jeopardy.
This is how it came to be.
On Thursday night, I met up with my mate Simon in a pub in town. I haven’t seen him since my cousin was here, and I miss the days when he still worked in the café, it was always a blast. We had nice chats and it was good catching up.

We were expecting Dom, too, but he told me a day later that he couldn’t be arsed to be around so many people. Until I mentioned that one of Simon’s drunk workmates flashed her boobs. “Damn I didn’t go”, he said. Not that I was too impressed. I mean, what’s nice about sitting in a pub crammed with people, hearing two horny middle-aged men (incidentally her bosses, from what I gathered?) egg her on, until she uttered an intoxicated giggle and pulled her shirt up, only to see my slightly aghast face, run around the table, hug me (with her shirt down, obviously, or I would have legged it) and profusely apologise about wriggling her tits in my face.
Anyway, I digress.

At one point, I went to the loo, and the disaster happened on the way back. There were two ways to get to our part of the pub. One was a ramp just along the bar. The other one was a step right next to it. The ramp was too full of people, so I squeezed through a group behind it. There were too many people, and too little light. Hence I didn’t see the step. My foot went over it and found only air where the floor should have been. I stumbled, and my foot bent inwards while I landed on the floor, and the most excruciating pain shot through my leg, right up into my brain like a bolt of red hot metal, actually leaving me gasping for air and close to throwing up. I kinda dragged myself back up and tried to look brave while I limped back to my chair. The girlfriend of one of Simon’s mates looked at me funny and asked if I was alright. “Yeah, I’m fine”, I said, my voice straining because the pain was still incredible, but I expected it to go away in a few minutes. Then I looked at my leg… and saw that my ankle didn’t look like an ankle anymore, but like a frightfully plump sausage. That girl came over and had a look – conveniently, she was a nurse – and just went “Oh shit” and “I’ll get some ice”. Simon was an absolute darling and called me a taxi and helped me outside and lent me 20 quid so I could get home.
The next morning I couldn’t even walk anymore. Which is shit, because as I said, I plan on going to see my folks on Tuesday, and it will be kinda impossible if I can’t walk. Not going means not only missing yet another Christmas with my folks, but also losing the money that was spent on the coach and plane tickets.

In the words of the immortal Adrian Mole:

Just my luck!