Ahoy there, shipmates. Get out your seats and let's get ill.
Or, not, as the case turns out to be. You see, the D-Day referred to above stands for "Discharged". Today, I left the care of the Intermediate Legs and was released back into society.
Amid some emotional scenes, I took my leave of the physio staff and the fine men and woman who make up the Intermediate Leg class at the local infirmary.
For the final time I strode out into that gym to gurn and sweat my way through the feared friday step session. In a final cathartic act, I mastered the fiendishly complex "triple V-step, take it to the corners, then high knee" manouevre while keeping time to the pumping sounds of a dance megamix of "I am what I am". Pretty hot stuff, I think you will agree.
With hour two came the ultimate circuit of exercises. All manner of running, stretching, balancing, bridging, squatting, lunging and flexing movements were undertaken under the watchful eye of Anna the physio. The watchful eye being the right one. The other, or left one, being of course the crip side.
I think it is fair to say that, while I will never attain the physical prowess of Wolfs from "Gladiator" or Brian Jacks from "Superstar", I have become a tolerable performer on the wobbleboards, often completing the full minute on one leg without overbalancing. For any ladies reading this, I apologise for getting you so excited with these tales of heroic physical achievement.
You may wish to get yourself a glass of water and attempt to calm yourself before continuing.
From the gym to the fitness room and the closing act of this most rigorous of training programmes. The "Specifics" class. A set of bending and stretching calisthenics designed to turn the spindliest, flabbiest of injured legs into an instrument of honed, taut, iron flesh that could have been forged in the devil's own smithy. You can wear ankle weights as well. I wore the purple one.
That's the second heaviest one. I am skill.
The class over, I retired to the exercise bikes for a gentle cool-down spin while well-wishers wished me well and several not unmanly tears were choked back.
Many long weeks ago I walked into that hospital a nobody. A putz, a schmuck, an eedjit, a jack ass, if you will. Today I walked out a somebody. Anyone who has served with the Intermediate Legs is part of a family, an elite, a bunch of fellows and comrades and that stays with you for life.
There is a bond forged when prancing like a tit to "We all sleep alone" by Cher. When you have seen your buddy fall off a wobbleboard with only ten seconds to go, it brings you closer together. And when you have crowded round the water cooler waiting for those fat fucks in "Legs for Beginners" to finish with the gym you have experienced the true brotherhood (and sisterhood) of the Intermediate Legs.
I'll bid you adieu now, I seem to have something in my eye.