Ankle spanking in Baker St

Now THIS I don’t believe. I’ve made it down safely from over 13,000ft twenty times this year after stepping from a moving aircraft, and I sprain my ankle doing Krav Maga?

Yup, sprained. I just don’t get injured in the normal-human-being sense, and I think my dumbfounded amazement is equal to the (agonising) pain. Ten minutes from class end and we’re chasing around trying to stab each other in the back (life imitates krav) and I do a quick 180 to avoid a guy with a glint in his eye, my rubbersoled foot stays glued to the ground, and something twists deep down.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK is the extent of my conversational skills for about three minutes. Icepack! Icepack!

OK, so I hadn’t been to Krav class for a month thanks to a skydiving holiday and prep for a triathlon, but I haven’t been properly injured in years. I was beginning to think it just didn’t happen to me. Then something like this happens, and maybe it’s a good thing to be reminded of your own mortality occasionally.

Home after a £32 taxi ride (I’ve been a student recently enough to care about that) and there are two lumps the size of golf balls on the outside of my ankle; the ankle bone’s sticking-out bit is buried under a mass of necrotising flesh. I’m going to feel this one for days.

And even worse, the class took place in front of some new recruits waiting for their induction. I mean, they’re going to think Krav Maga is dangerous or something.