Funny what daytime tv can teach you.
Did you know that the Ab Circle Pro can get rid of flabby love handles? And that you can have funeral costs covered for just 25 cents a day? That might provide loved ones with just enough to farewell you in a cardboard box.
I know all this because I’ve been sitting at home for the past month, with a leg in the air.
That’s not some form of kinky celebration. It’s how one recovers from a dislocated ankle. And torn ligaments. And bone fractures. A serious, painful, nasty injury usually suffered by elite sports folk in high impact activities.
I would love nothing better than to tell you how I misjudged my skydive, or won the game in the final seconds for a ridiculously fit Masters Touch football side.
No, that would be fibbing. The truth is, I’m one of a growing number of mature men badly injured while gardening.
The list becomes a little smaller when it’s revealed that it was a hedging accident at the mother-in-law’s place.
My misfortune has provided relatives with weeks of giggles and a lifetime of stories for Christmas lunch. It happened while we were all taking part in the first, and last, family working bee.
Somehow, I was the only one to end up in hospital. I’m certain the rest polished off a fancy seafood feast. They reckon they didn’t because they were too upset. Yeah right. Fresh tiger prawns wait for no man, no matter where his foot happens to be pointing.
Anyway, the finer details aren’t important. You probably know anyway, if you’re a member of the Facebook page “Pansies injured while gardening.”
What my home detention has done is allow me to spend some quality time with loved ones. For the first week. After that, phrases like “get it yourself” and “it must be better now” rang loud across the house. They’re a tough breed, these women.
Once the sympathy well ran dry, I turned to tv. And took a stroll back to my childhood.
With the help of a large black comfy recliner, as favoured in most nursing home common rooms, I settled in to make the best of a bad situation.
Movies I haven’t seen for years. Books that needed reading. And Prisoner.
Each midday, as I made a sandwich of whatever scraps the girls had left at breakfast, I would go back in time to join the female inmates of the Wentworth Detention centre.
Remember Bea Smith? Queen Bea ran things inside. When I caught up with the show she’d just been let out on parole. After a nice lunch and a new hairdo, she shot her old man. Bea was back inside before I’d finished my milk.
Franky Doyle the lesbian and dopey Doreen escaped. They stole a kid’s fish and chips, dressed up as nuns, and managed to stay on the run until my physio appointment. For all I know they could still be offering blessings at church fetes.
The crazy thing is, I remembered watching this rubbish, all those years ago. Mum loved it, God bless her. It was a family favourite. And here I was, confined to quarters, once again celebrating the antics and overacting of the girls in H block.
Other small screen memories flooded back. Green Acres. The Cosby Show. Murphy Brown. And every few days Peter Falk would return as the bumbling detective Columbo.
They all provided their own flashbacks to happy times. Nice memories. And a welcome distraction from a crook foot.
The girls from Prisoner did their bit to keep insanity at bay. I think. I’ll know for sure when I get back to reality this week.
There’ll be no marathons in the near future. Walking to the back fridge will do just fine.
I’ll be wary of nuns working in pairs for a while. The good news is that I won’t be needing that funeral coverage just yet. And I could be wrong, but I reckon my abs are really starting to take shape.