Evil benchmark

We went to see Superman yesterday evening at the IMAX. Thoroughly exciting - it was the first time I’ve ever been to the IMAX.

Only about 20 minutes of the movies was in 3D, but it was amazing - you feel like you can reach out and touch the characters in front of you.

I was so impressed with the effects that I missed much of the story, but I think think the plot was along the lines of Superman saves the world. Something like that. Lex Luthor was a little disappointing - I just didn’t feel he was bad enough. I mean, he didn’t kill off any of his own henchmen, which I consider a critical villain benchmark (or evilometer if you prefer)

Chinese burn

I finally got around to visiting the Physio about my right wrist, which I damaged about four months ago, learning how to snowboard. It wasn’t the learning that did it; it was more the unscheduled nose-dives. At one point, I fell over backwards and landed on my hands, and the inside of my wrist turned an attractive shade of deep purple. I didn’t think much of it at the time; figured it would be grand with a bit of rest.

Generally speaking it doesn’t bother me much, except when leaning on the palm of my hand and playing squash. More an irritant than anything else.

So I’m sitting there with the Physio, and she’s doing her exam, pressing and prodding and turning my hand this way and that.

“Does this hurt?” she said, digging her thumb into the side of my wrist.

“No.”

“How about this?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“Er, no.”

“This?”

“Ah, well, kind of . . . not really.”

I was getting embarrassed about my inconsiderate lack of pain, and considering lying to make her feel better - you know:

“Oh there, there I felt something. Oh yes definitely, like, ouch.”

Then she pressed a spot on the inside of my wrist, and I screamed for five minutes. (I also considered hitting her, but I’d have had to resort to my left arm).

It appears I’ve fractured my sca- cra- scartoid thingy. No squash for the next decade. I am convinced the medical profession is engaged in a conspiracy to keep me off the squash court. That and my treacherous body.

The Physio, Anne, walked me outside to make sure I paid without running off, and I bumped into my Osteo, Malcolm Gregory. Lovely man; very ethereal and other-worldly, with a great fuzz of hair that has never seen benefit of comb or brush. If he had a soundtrack, it would be all whale mating calls and aimless plinky-plink.

He has the hardest, horniest fingers I have ever come across in another human being (not that I ritually examine people’s fingers, but still). Anne said, “Oh Malcolm, Niamh has fractured her . . . thingy and the bones are all loose. Feel.”

So he grabs a hauld of me and says:

“Does that hurt?”

And I’m roaring: “Well you’ve got me in a Chinese Burn, you bastard.”