Taking a dive

So, boot off.

And still concsious. Must be braver than I thought. There had been some howling, though. I can't deny it. Mum and Dad outside squirming at the thought of what the charming gourmand was doing to their (long since) little boy. Mum so traumatised that she was last seen running headlong for the nearest creperie for a choc fest. Bob 'the Punch' standing steadfast, though, which is encouraging, because I have to say that my new found fortitude in the face of pain and gore did not obviously course from his stock. No offence, but we are not the bravest, us Stevos.

But he was a mean boxer in his day. Bob 'the Punch' that is, not the charming gourmand. Picked up the nickname as a result of a formidable right hook in his school days. Used to fell Mick 'the Dive' Ross for fun and was generally thought of as the terror of the south coast, or at least the little bit of it between Pevensey and Beachy Head, otherwise known as Eastbourne. Hard place in those days. Reigned supreme for about 4 years until an exchange student from New York arrived in the summer of '57; can't remember his name, something Soprano. It was a hot one (the summer) and the 2 had been eyeing eachother all through a torrid June; I suppose it was inevitable someone would make the fight. They prowled up an down the pier, circled the Martello Tower and eventually came to blows one balmy evening in the College Gym, otherwise known as Willingdon Square Garden.

When I say 'came to blows' I am afraid that is a bit of an exaggeration. In fact they came to a 'blow'. Soprano (as we shall call him) sent out a tentative jab, well that's what he called it afterwards when speaking to the Eastbourne Gazette. I am afraid it was good enough to demolish the hitherto unblemished record of the local boy. In freeze frame he hit the floor and the fight was over. Just like that.

They said it was a fix. Said the local mob were involved. Anyway, Bob the punch married the daughter of one of the big local families, so who knows, there might be some truth in it. Anyway, some years later he found himself standing, worried, outside a French clinic whilst he son and heir was tortutred by some over fed, cheese eating...steady on, he was charming and I hope he is enjoying his holiday.

Back inside, x rays done and our hero uses all his professional expertise to assess the situation. After 12 years of poring over medical reports and evaluating injury I was able to look at the pictures and confidently assert "C'est casse". Charming gourmand clearly impressed, and not just with my mastery of his language. "Bien sur" he relplies which roughly translates as "No shit, Sherlock". He then sets the leg in above knee cast, to accompanying whimpers. Finally he looks at my face, quizzically.

"Did you do all zat in ze fall?" he asks, clearly impressed. He looks at the array of grazes and what appear to be burns all over my face. "Yes", I murmur. I am too ashamed to tell him the truth, to tell him how I really smashed up my face. That is another story and one I cannot quite bring myself to tell right now. Suffice to say that tomorrow's installment may well a little surreal...

Anyway, another day passes and I continue to muse on the plight of others, particulartly in the light of Alex's comment. It strikes me that one man's broken leg is another man's curtailed lunch and that my misfortune no more than another day in the life of a local doctor in a small skiing village high (in fact low) in the French Alps. Quel fromage!