They’ll eventually find me beneath a pile of dog hair

Mo Farrah after missing out on a gold medal
				 Picture: Adam Davy

VERITY LUSH: Leave me to browse the make-up counter in peace

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There were more consequences of the bad weather than my soggy garden, those strange, unidentified insects in my bathroom and the general prunage of my skin.

Much worse than any of these, for me, was the damn puddles. The ones that didn’t look that wide, didn’t look that deep, didn’t look that hard to leap. Pride, as they say, comes before a fall.

The dog managed it fine, and it really wasn’t that big. But one failed landing later and I may be having surgery.

Aside from the dog jumping all over my head and slobbering in my ear with enthusiasm at this new ‘game’ of squatting in puddles shrieking with agony, the worse part is not knowing quite what is wrong other than a general all-encompassing ‘cartilage’ issue.

A prognosis of ‘it could get better – if it still hurts in six weeks, come back’ has filled me with despair.

But not as much as the advice to help it heal for those six weeks by resting my leg, keeping it up and staying off it.

That’s right, I’ll do just that because with a dog, three children and a husband, plus a job, that’s really going to happen.

Until I laid on the sofa in front of the TV, I didn’t realise quite how active I normally am.

It is really hard to keep still, especially when you know that other things aren’t being done to your satisfaction.

Like the washing. You hear the machine stop spinning and you wait and wait and wait for someone else to summon up the impetus to go and do something about it.

I think that’s why the children have finally taken to shutting the sitting room door, so that they can pretend that they don’t hear me yelling obscenities.

It’s only when you are laid up in these situations that you realise how much you do to keep the most slovenly of houses vaguely clean.

The dog, for example, appears to be shedding and re-growing his coat on a daily basis now that I am unable to manoeuvre our industrial vacuum cleaner.

When the children finally open the sitting room door to let me, the shrieking washing-machine banshee, out, they’ll be shocked to discover that I’ve been lost under a pile of dog hair.