Fall in Autumn

It was all over in a flash. One moment I was up, in control (seemingly) of my movements, and the next thing I knew I was lying on the floor, with the unfailing certainty that my ankle had given way. And it was unceremonious, no hint of glamour or valour in the whole thing, nothing like these chaps here. No no no, it was just a slip, a good, old-fashioned slip on the wet pitch. Down and out. No slow motion, soundtrack, nothing. And it hurt. It was the last kick of the match and I went down trying to stop someone scoring, as if it would have made a difference at that point, we were losing anyway. But you know, pride, competitiveness and all that. I remember people flocking around me, talking, helping out-funny how rivalry disappears when there's someone on the floor, even though he ended up there as a result. Thanks lads. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I am now the proud owner of an ankle which resembles a piglet, with little stripes of blue and yellow (Fenerbahçe?). If you are not squeamish, you can preview my work here. If you are indeed squeamish, you can always do something else, perhaps enjoy Cat Power's version of New York New York. Onwards and upwards, give me the drugs!