Earlier today, on my way to a seminar, I made the mistake of opening a door.
You could, without reading the rest of this blog, turn that into something brilliantly metaphorical. Don't though, because I literally opened a door.
I pushed open the aforementioned door – which was quite large, mind you - and my wrist made a sound not dissimilar to that of a hobnob being snapped in half.
You might think I'm exaggerating, but there was a witness. A boy, who really should have been a gentleman and opened the door for me, went “oooft” before asking if I was okay.
I’m not going to lie to you, readers, it bloody hurt. But was I willing to admit that in a public setting to a stranger? Of course not. So off I went on my merry way, assuming that my arm would stop hurting at any moment.
About half an hour into the seminar, however, my wrist had changed colour. It was somehow yellow and pink and a little bit blue. Not to mention swollen.
To cut a long story short, because I am currently typing this with one hand, I ended up sitting in the medical centre being told by a nurse that not only was it highly probable that my wrist was sprained, but that she was very concerned about me doing so much damage to myself while undertaking such a simple task. Then she said something about "underlying condition" after I admitted that my arm has actually been hurting since last November, but has never done a crunchy noise before.
I KNOW. I should have been to see a doctor or something. Shut up.
Anyway, I’m supposed to go for an x-ray as soon as possible. Unfortunately for my wellbeing, I resent paying £2.25 for a bus ticket, just to be re-told that my wrist is sprained. So, being the sensible little thing that I am, I’m ignoring medical advice and seeing how it goes.
Anyone who urges me to go to the hospital will be ignored. Unless they are willing to drive me there.