I Am *gulp* Not Always Right

'Oh my Achilles...' is an expression one might reasonably expect to hear at a Greek play depicting the fall of Troy, the poignant wailing cry of Hippodameia as she realises that her master and lover has been brutally slain, leaving her to fend for herself in a world ravaged by war. Instead, it is the expletive of suffering that echoes around every stairwell at work and at home as I wallow in the pain and misery of my first sporting injury.

'Remember to stretch, and don't overdo it at the beginning.' advised the fitness trainer during my gym induction, as did my flatmates, one of my work colleagues, two good friends, my mother, the homeless man who sleeps outside the newsagent at the corner of our street and the ticket inspector on the 08:19 to Kingston.

Being famed across the land for always listening to good advice and not thinking that I know better than everyone, I decided to stretch, nay, hyperextend my index finger to increase the speed of the treadmill to 11km/h before even setting foot on it. As I observed the well-toned athletes and gym class regulars on the machines to the front, back, left and right of me, I can even remember my sense of overwhelming superiority as I mentally castigated them for wasting such precious calorie-burning time warming up and down. Stretch? Pah!

Similarly, a running sequence of 10km, 5km, 10km, 10km, 5km and 5km on consecutive days one week after joining the gym and doing exercise for the first time in 7 years might also be regarded in cardiovascular circles as 'overdoing it'. Pride before a fall indeed...

The result is a cute little chipmunk-blowing-bubblegum popping sound in my left ankle every time I go up or down stairs, the limp of a freshly-castrated snow leopard and a no longer reluctant admission that I am a Grade A tool of the highest calibre.

My lofty perch is now riddled with woodworm as everyone at work seems to recall long-forgotten tales of tendinitis and tendinisis, 'Did you stretch before running? No? Well that explains it.' becomes the office mantra and the canteen has a fixed menu of humble pie for the rest of the week.

I can only be grateful that my parents are on holiday and cannot impart the most bruising 'I told you so'. Until next week...

Toilet Humour

The Colosseum in Rome, the Eiffel Tower in Paris, the majestic Gateway Arch in St. Louis, the Mayan temples at Tikal in Guatemala, the Sydney Opera House, the Great Wall of China: all magnificent examples of man's constructive creativity.

To these masterpieces of ancient and contemporary design can now be added the Toilet of Room 552 at the Hôtel des Bains in Paris, a slightly less illustrious but no less worthy addition to an international Who's Who of architectural genius.

I could easily express my anguish as my predicament dawned on me. I could bluntly convey in several poignant phrases the pain as I incurred three trapped nerves, two pulled muscles and a short but electric bolt of sciatica in my upper back in my futile attempt to grasp my Holy Grail. But on this occasion, words cannot do the situation justice and I shall let a picture do the talking.



Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the world's most ridiculously located toilet roll dispenser.