Of Vinny’s and weetbix!

IT’S NO sinny lying in bed with St Vinny!

I shall try to make you grinny although I do not have a tinny or a ginny or a tonicy.

If you know what I’m talking about you’d better tell me quickly; it’s only a short time since my last visit to St Vinny’s but it’s true that I am back in hospital.

I fell off my dining room chair last week and landed diabolically heavily on my right shoulder and arm.

The combination of my weight and a good glass of wine was sufficient to damage my bowling arm and leave me offside.

I am now resting and contemplating in St Vincent’s, seeing and wondering what I shall have for dinner tonight.

One of the annoying things is to have to do this as my wife takes notes and a young nurse, for the 10th time, takes blood.

This is all in the best interest of getting out of this excellent hospital as quickly as possible.

I like to think it won’t take too long, but I suspect I shall be in this bed for several days to come.

Let’s face it, if you are feeling crook, then one of the better places to be is in a decent hospital like St Vinny’s.

So I have switched my television off and my wife is responding to my dictation.

Falling off a dining chair can make breaking a right arm (especially if you are righthanded!) no sense whatsoever when the alternative is to sit in a comfortable chair watching the telly.

Still, you have to learn to accept that the cricket is probably not worth watching and that it is all a plot to help me get my breath back after the first match or two!

My reaction to the cricket reminds me of the agony of watching Chelsea’s soccer, long before it became starstudded.

My wife tells me that so far I’ve dictated about 300 words, so I’m coming up to halftime for this week’s match! It makes Stamford Bridge particularly attractive and well worth the exorbitant entrance fee you have to pay

‘‘ I WILL TELL BY THE SOUND OF HIS VOICE HOW THEY REALLY ARE OR WHETHER HE IS MERELY TRYING TO REMEMBER WHEN AN OUTSTANDING BRITISH FOOTBALLER LAST PLAYED FOR THEM.

these days.

My bonus for being a bit crook is that my twin brother has just made a friendly phone call asking after my health.

It always makes me feel wanted and I must remember to inquire about the quality of Chelsea’s performance this year.

I will tell by the sound of his voice how they really are or whether he is merely trying to remember when an outstanding British footballer last played for them. It is a rare event these days to find a British-born player in a British soccer team.

I can remember the days before rough continental lads wearing soft sandals took over.

On the other hand, the skills of a Frenchman or Italian were a pleasure to watch, irrespective of the quality of their footwear.

Thank goodness that wearing plimsolls appeared long before my dad formed the view that soccer players were only worthy of his support when the weather was particularly good and London transport was giving special fares to attract attendance by pensioners and young kids.

Hopefully I shall be fit enough to be back on the field myself as soon as my shoulder stops aching and begins to look like the real thing again.

I am very fortunate that I met a woman who, despite pretending to like netball, actually prefers soccer to any other game.

Her father was himself a professional soccer player and therefore was able to minimise the time she had to spend on a daft game like that.

I always urged students to stay away from games such as netball or basketball and instead to stay with proper games like cricket and tennis.

Meanwhile I’m trying to shrug my shoulders and getting used to more and more Weetbix for breakfast.