With her ankle heavily strapped up and her new, sensible ‘sensible’ shoes laced on, Karen felt fit enough to tackle work.
“See you later!” she called out, grabbing her viewing consultant bag, car keys, and phone, marching out the door with barely a trace of a limp.
While her mobility was remarkably improved, the underlying damage remained impressive—her ankle was still a vibrant shade of bruised green. Fortunately, her appointments were all local today, meaning she could execute a mid-shift pit stop at home to change footwear, apply a fresh ice pack, and top up on ibuprofen if needed.
For those unversed in Formula 1 racing, when a driver needs an urgent tyre change, the pit wall radios the command: “Box, Box, Box!” Naturally, I spent the morning posed like an eager pit-crew mechanic, ready to spring into action the moment I received Karen’s frantic “Socks, Socks, Socks” text announcing her imminent arrival.
With the pit lane clear, I tackled the top item on my domestic to-do list: cutting the lawn. Clearing the grass beforehand of abandoned dog toys, stray wood splinters, half-chewed bones, and autumn leaves is a chore in itself, but seeing a crisp, freshly mown lawn is immensely satisfying. The rich smell of cut grass alone makes it a job that delivers an immediate feel-good factor for a few days.
However, mowing the lawn in our household requires navigating a major tactical challenge: the border collies go utterly ballistic the moment the mower motor turns over.
Moog is notoriously noise-sensitive—regular readers will recall the ongoing trauma of ‘Scary Bin Day’—so any unexpected mechanical roar sends him into an instant frenzy. Chic considers Moog completely unhinged (fair assessment) and, being a proper alpha bitch, immediately tries to assert authority and put him in his place.
Recently, Pikachu has volunteered as the self-appointed peacekeeper, attempting to defuse the tension by sprinting circles around them while emitting a series of ear-splitting, high-pitched barks capable of setting off local car alarms and disrupting nearby Wi-Fi signals.
It now takes considerably longer to execute the pre-mowing canine quarantine than it does to actually cut the grass.
With the lawn pristine and snacks packed in my kit bag, I headed out just as Karen returned from her shift. She had survived her entire workday on just a single F1 pit stop—a heroic effort.
My destination for the evening was the Wiltshire Junior Ranking competition, where I was supporting my young coachees. This annual tournament serves as the primary trial for players attempting to earn a spot on the official Wiltshire county squad. My two Pewsey players were attending largely for the high-level tournament experience.
By the time the final matches wrapped up around 9:30 PM, it had been a long, grueling evening for the lads, but their spirits remained remarkably high. They played brilliantly against tough, experienced opposition and, most importantly, thoroughly enjoyed the challenge.
To cap off the night, my other young coachee fought through some brutally competitive matches and officially secured his place in the Wiltshire County Team.
Which is wonderful news, of course, though it does bring one distinct drawback: I am now under strict personal pressure to significantly up my own coaching game to keep pace with him.
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