I went on a skive masquerading as my own CPD last Tuesday – diving at St Abbs, ostensibly to break my duck and get in the water for the first time this year.  In fact, to meet Jane who was over from Belfast for a few days.  It was a lovely day and we had two great dives.  Good visibility, several wolf fish and lobsters, the cave at West Hurkar, all the anemones and soft corals out to play.  Sunshine, puffins, guillemots and razor bills on the surface. Fantastic!  And I could remember how everything worked and it didn’t seem so hard after all.

But – why is there always a but? – getting back up the ladder and into the boat for the second time, I missed my footing and crashed to the floor.  I knew before I hit the deck that this was the bad one so when I was aked politely to move out of the way so that the others could get in, I replied, equally politely (if you believe that), “No!”

That was Tuesday pm.  The ambulance met us at the slipway and took me to the Royal.  Saturday pm I finally arrived home with some unsolicited metalwork in my leg and firm instructions that there is to be no weight bearing on that leg for 6 weeks.  Hence my long silence.

Oh damn!

ps.  There are now 3 of us in (or perhaps just out of) plaster in the family.  My brother in law broke his leg in Ireland at Easter and his wife, my sister, was knocked off her bike by a lorry in London about 3 weeks ago and broke her foot.  Apparently mine’s the best though.  Who’s next?