My ankle has been sore for a week or more - time has lost all it's meaning lately. I've had a bruise on my right leg since I crashed into the open filing cabinet drawer the last week in January, so having an equally painful happening on my left ankle was something that's been aching around my periferal memory until the last few days when I swear it's got worse.
I couldn't for the life of me remember what I had done to cause such swelling, bruising and discomfort - until the wee-small-hours of last night while I couldn't sleep.
The day I bought my new telephone it was raining - and amoung his charming attributes, Shane doesn't like to get wet and it was raining - so spotting a Corporate Cab up off Queen Street we dashed across the road so he could ride the last 3 blocks to the office in dry comfort.
The cab doors were locked, so the driver hoped out in the rain and opened them up for us and threw ourselves in - laptops and breathless ohmygoshes. Shane then proceeded to tell the driver where we'd like to go. The driver looked in his rear view mirrow and said "you're not Mr So-and-so?" and Shane hesitated for a moment and admitted he was not. The driver laughed and said "sorry mate, I'm booked, you sound just like my fare too".
Opening the doors and exiting the vehicle after our far-too-small respite from the rain, my stupid tractionless Pulp sneakers slipped on the drain grate and I went over on my ankle into it's hard metal. Graceful? always. That'll do it everytime you want to wreck a body part - slam it into a solid iron drainage grate.
Shane and I walked the very damp three blocks back to the office - in all fairness, he didn't have to, but he's a gentleman even if his mum teases him about being a little shit, he still walked me all the way back before making his way to his parking building.