Plastered?

I spent a happy evening in A & E last night, courtesy of my Father. He's OK I think but it was a pretty busy evening in there with all bays full and trolleys queued up along all the corridors.

I seem to have spent a lot of time in The Royal Sussex A & E Dept. over the years. Mrs B and her gall bladder, my daughter breaking her wrist, my son with strange headaches, Dad for all sorts of reasons and me, more times than I care to think of.....oh, happy days! It's a fascinating place to people watch (and plenty of time to do it) and last night was no different.......... doctors (getting younger and younger) gazing at monitors showing crystal clear x-rays of various bits: Mrs B and I had a great time trying to identify them, "That looks like a jug." "Nah, it's more like a stylised flying saucer." I'd then nonchalantly stand close to it trying to read exactly what it was and then return to state authoratitively "Hmm, thought so, it's an endogenous ossificationised perineurium."

Anyway, there were hordes of ambulancemen champing at the bit to get back to work but unable to do so as their charges had yet to be seen, nurses dashing back and forth and groups of relatives, standing around in nervous apprehension. Father needed an ECG and the only room available was the plaster room so in we toddled. This was a bittersweet moment as I have never had a limb plastered and feel I've missed out on life somewhat. As I gazed at the racks of bandage and all the paraphernalia, I was reminded of my honeymoon. Shall I explain?

25 years ago saw the resort of Cala d'Or being graced with the presence of Yours Truly and my new wife. We'd been there a couple of days and, as I wandered up to bed, I noticed a sign on the notice board announcing a football match the following evening against the local Sporting Club. Fuelled by several shots of brandy, I wandered up to Reception and asked if they needed a goalkeeper and the offer was gratefully accepted.

The next morning, I said to my wife that, on second thoughts, perhaps I wouldn't bother playing. She pointed out 2 things:-

1. It wasn't a football match for guests as I assumed, and
2. There had been an announcement that the team would be graced by the appearance of a famous English goalkeeper!Now, Sussex County League standard I might have been but famous?! There had obviously been a language problem or they were winding up the other guests but I had no choice other than to play so duly climbed on the minibus with a dozen horribly athletic and young Spaniards.

The pitch was red shale rather than grass so I astutely decided to keep on my jeans, thinking my legs would be protected. Five minutes into the match, I slid out to take the ball from the attacker's feet and suddenly my knee turned into an approximation of a badly-mauled pepperoni pizza. It stung but was really not too big a problem. I was fired up and was a goalkeeper (therefore, by definition, mad) so carried on for another 10 minutes until I leapt for a high cross among a group of heads. Falling to the ground with the ball, I was conscious of a severe pain in my right elbow region but, because I had needed treatment previously, didn't want to make a fuss so carried on. We eventually won the match 2-0 and I got back to the hotel.

My wife suggested a bath and had to help me into the water and then to bed. Apparently, that night I was delirious and so it was off to the local doctor next morning who diagnosed torn ligaments and bandaged my arm from wrist to shoulder. I had an extremely uncomfortable remaining honeymoon and we duly arrived home.

Now, at this juncture, may I say I do not bruise. To some, this will be viewed as a blessing but it means that I get absolutely zilch sympathy no matter what I do. I think I can remember 2 bruises in my whole life until I removed that bandage. I stood there, bronzed all over from my holiday, apart from this pure white arm with the biggest bruise you have ever seen! It was every colour you can imagine and went from mid-forearm to mid bicep. Me being me, I, of course, milked this for all it was worth. The arm was still very painful and I remember bemoaning the fact that I had missed out on a plaster cast yet again. A week later, and with an arm still not right, wife suggested it might be an idea to go to A & E and so I wandered up there and was duly X-rayed.

I was very dismissive to the radiologist and, as he emerged with the film, I arrogantly said to him "Bet there isn't a break, is there?" My flabber was ghasted as he calmly told me there were actually three: 2 below and 1 above the elbow!. My first thought was " Blimey 75 minutes in goal with a triple broken arm and I still didn't let a goal in" whereas my second was "Whoopee, I'll get a plaster cast".

Life is never that simple, is it? I was told that all three breaks were healing beautifully and, as it was 3 weeks on, it would be better not to disturb them and was duly dispatched with a sling and a crepe bandage.

I worked in a fairly small town at the time and there were few secrets. For some reason, my exploits had achieved a certain notoriety and I used to get not only customers, but others coming into the building society and asking either me or my staff was it true that I had broken my arm in three places on my honeymoon?

I guess it proved what little excitement they had in their lives or were hoping for details of some nuptially dangerous exploits but all seemed most disappointed that it was caused by football. "Football?" they would say aghast, "You broke it playing football?" and, shaking their heads, would wander out for a quick sortie into the wool shop before returning to their lunchtime glass of sherry.

I treasure the memory of that match and of that bruise but it still rankles that I never got my plaster cast. I'm over that desire now but if anyone wants to sign their name on my arm instead - feel free!