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A Bird In Hand
Apr. 20th, 2007 10:52 amGimp report: I went to a sports injury clinic this morning--although the slow jog I was doing when my leg popped on Wednesday evening scarcely deserves being called a 'sport'--and was diagnosed with a tear to my Achilles tendon. I spent yesterday at home alternately reading Harry Potter on the couch with my leg elevated and shuffling Quasimodo-like around the house, but I'm back at work today and walking a little better. I wish I had a more interesting story to go with the limp--I doubt I could have been running any slower when it happened.
My father is a runner and therefore all too familiar with leg injuries, so I called him on Wednesday night to ask for advice on what to do. He wasn't home, so I left a message telling him I was lame. He has a tendency to get a little overexcited about health issues and phoned my work number yesterday morning. When he didn't get an answer, he immediately went into a flap and called me at home. His first words when I answered: "Where are you? Where *are* you???" Um, you called me... :-)
In other news, while reading on the couch yesterday, I became aware of a repetitive tapping noise. At first I thought it was one of the neighbours hammering something, but then Daughter o' Jim realized that it was coming from the basement. There's an old iron stove/fireplace thing down there that hasn't been used in years. Daughter o' Jim shone a flashlight in through the front window of it and discovered a trapped starling. Jim rescued it when he came home from work--it shrieked all the way through the house, then flew away immediately when he released it on the front porch, so it didn't seem to be hurt. When we went back downstairs to clean up the feathers, we noticed that there were rather a lot of them. Upon closer examination, we saw a beak attached to some of them: this wasn't the first starling to fall down the chimney and get stuck in the stove. Judging by its state of dessication and disintegration, this one met its grim fate quite a long time ago. So poor bird #2 not only had to spend a day trying to peck its way out of a stove, but it had to do it in the company of a corpse of one of its brethren. Ew.
My father is a runner and therefore all too familiar with leg injuries, so I called him on Wednesday night to ask for advice on what to do. He wasn't home, so I left a message telling him I was lame. He has a tendency to get a little overexcited about health issues and phoned my work number yesterday morning. When he didn't get an answer, he immediately went into a flap and called me at home. His first words when I answered: "Where are you? Where *are* you???" Um, you called me... :-)
In other news, while reading on the couch yesterday, I became aware of a repetitive tapping noise. At first I thought it was one of the neighbours hammering something, but then Daughter o' Jim realized that it was coming from the basement. There's an old iron stove/fireplace thing down there that hasn't been used in years. Daughter o' Jim shone a flashlight in through the front window of it and discovered a trapped starling. Jim rescued it when he came home from work--it shrieked all the way through the house, then flew away immediately when he released it on the front porch, so it didn't seem to be hurt. When we went back downstairs to clean up the feathers, we noticed that there were rather a lot of them. Upon closer examination, we saw a beak attached to some of them: this wasn't the first starling to fall down the chimney and get stuck in the stove. Judging by its state of dessication and disintegration, this one met its grim fate quite a long time ago. So poor bird #2 not only had to spend a day trying to peck its way out of a stove, but it had to do it in the company of a corpse of one of its brethren. Ew.
