When someone talks about “cracking” ribs, it’s hard to know what they actually mean: I don’t think there’s a medical definition; and people wouldn’t stick to it anyway, if sympathy’s in the offing. So: despite almost certainly not breaking mine, I’d like to think there was a weightier term than just “bruising” to describe what I did to them, coming down the tail end of a red run in the Alps last week.
Throwing that out there in that fashiong makes me sound rather like some humblebragging member of the international jetset, but frankly the slopes these days contain far more surfers, away from the coast for the winter, and early twentysomethings in animal onesies, than bronzed millionaires flashing brilliant smiles into lens flare. On top of that, skiing is sufficiently out of character that, when K. told friends that was what I was away doing, they didn’t quite believe her.
After a week, I’m almost back to normal, so it’s clear that, however bad the bruising, that was all it really was, “cracking” notwithstanding. But the surreality of returning from skiing to my new freelancing life – of returning from Christmas, or anything, to my new freelancing life – has been slightly compounded by the cracked rib and terrible weather keeping me entirely indoors and sedentary. Every sneeze is followed by a whiny “ow”, so there’s no way I’m up for five laps of the local park, or a couple of hours spinning around the Cotswolds.
From chalet fervour to cabin fever, if you like. Roll on the brighter mornings and evenings. Just wait for me to get my breath back first.