12 weeks later.

God save the NHS, what a marvellous country we live in, I finally received my first lot of NHS treatment last week, a mere 12 weeks since a visit to my GP.

I’m not going to rant about this, but if it wasn’t for the generosity of John Reeves at the Fitness Factory, who has given me countless complimentary treatments, I would have either been in a world of pain, or severely skint right now.

But anyway after venturing through the catacombs of North Devon District Hospital, I eventually stumble upon my destination, the physiotherapy department. At this point I’m seriously dubious about what help they are possibly going to be able to give me, when I’ve been injured for three months, and the bone will have already knitted.

However, I’m thrilled to say I was very wrong.

My Physio, Lee, is brilliant.And to boot he’s a surfer, so he knows exactly what sort of positions I will be putting my body into, and has given me some very simple but effective changes I can make surfing, that will make all the difference.

The main thing I’ve taken from Lee is that he actually wants me to surf, even though it does hurt me, apparently that is all going to be part of the healing process. Kayaking and running are still out of the question for now, but I’m fine with that, as long as I can surf I’m pretty happy.
He has also given me a load of new exercises, and told me to put a rolled up hand towel on the back of my chair at work, to keep my back in the right position.

Lee’s advice came right in time for a week of classic surf, and although I was flat on my back in agony on Sunday night, following days in the perfect surf, I was also the happiest I’ve been in three months- grinning inanely and singing along to Fleetwood Mac as I lay stretched out on my bedroom floor.

It’s been a bit of a hardcore summer for me, in more ways than one, the back has been a massive problem because it’s kept me out of the water and left me unable to run, which are the two things I do to make myself feel better.

If anything goes wrong, I either escape to the beach and throw myself in the water, or stick on my i-pod, absorb myself in the music and run. I didn’t realise how important these two little things were to my staying sane, until they were taken away, and I have found it really hard.

I feel like I’ve been wandering around semi-sedated from the over-hang of the previous party all summer, and only really woke up this weekend. On Sunday I woke up, for the first time on a Sunday since Sunday July 13 without a hangover. I’m not sure whether I’m ashamed of this, proud of this or indifferent to it.

I think I’m all three.

Of course I am ashamed that I’ve put my body through having to deal with all those toxins on at least a weekly basis for the past three months, and subsequently spent every Sunday in some hideous pit of hangover despair, developing an unhealthy obsession with Kate Bush and Bridget Jones.

But I am also proud in a masochistic “I do what I want and answer to no one” kind of way. The way I see it from this angle is that I’m in my mid-twenties, and I’m going to have as much fun, go dancing and drink as much wine as I can, before I become too leathery for it to be socially acceptable.

But I think in a way I’m probably more indifferent to it all. Mainly because, yes, logically I have spiralled into a summer of booze, fags, festivals, parties and excess, but why not? It’s not like I do it every year, and I’m happy to bury it for a while now I can amuse myself in my preferred ways again.

My friends have a mixed opinion of this, most of them think I take the sports/training/healthy eating thing too far, and tell me it’s verging on obsession. They are probably right, but my skin, my mind and my body certainly prefer life without fags and booze as part of their staple diet.

The point is, that as much as I love nothing better than stumbling around, cock-eyed and noisy with my friends, it is good to give your body a rest once in a while. I’m not being all self righteous, because in truth about an hour ago I bought a Glastonbury ticket for next year, and Dino (a famous booze-hag from my uni days) is in North Devon this week, and I may or may not have a drink with her, but I just think it’s good to be aware.

As Mick Jagger said “It’s fine to let yourself go, as long as you can get yourself back.”

I wonder how many more evenings I can ignore Laura pouring wine under my nose into a nice big glass going “mmmm yummy wine” whilst jauntily posing with a delicious looking rolley...

I predict not long, but my friend Squiz sent me this the other day and it made me smile:

Once upon a time a girl was asked "will you marry me?"

The girl said "NO" And the girl lived happily ever after and went shopping, dancing, camping, drank vodkas, always had a clean house, never had to cook, did whatever the hell she wanted, never argued, didn't get fat, travelled more, had many lovers, didn't save money, and had all the hot water to herself.

She went to the theatre, never watched sports, had high self esteem, never cried or shouted, felt and looked fabulous in jogging bottoms and was pleasant all the time- the end.