But sometimes, one bad experience (even if it does involve hospitalisation for a week and 6 months on warfarin) just isn't enough and
*cue wibbly lines and dream sequence music*
I moved to Preston on a Friday afternoon in May and the very next morning I was on a train heading for Sheffield for a hen party.
I wasn't massively looking forward to it. Obviously I'd just gone through some major upheaval in my life and there was some potential awkwardness with the group of girls that was going that I wasn't really looking forward to.
Please note: These are not excuses for what happened - we all know I was going to get drunk anyway
As hen parties go it wasn't too horrific, but my heart sank when it was announced that there was going to be a competition. My heart sank for 2 reasons;
1) Hen party competitions are always rubbish,
2) My competitiveness will not allow me to not take part in the rubbish competition.
Note to anyone organising a hen party: Please don't do these "fun" competitions that are to last the whole night. They are wank. And also everyone will be so drunk by the end that no-one will be bothering with the competition. But mostly....they're wank.
This little round of "fun" involved us getting photos. We had a list of photos to get - things like "you and a phone box", "you and a blue drink" etc etc.
I had on one of my most beloved pair of Irregular Choice shoes, a present from The Person who picked them all out by himself and everything.
We were almost in the club when Best Friend and I spotted a policeman standing nearby. A policeman was on our list of photos. Being the competitive spirits that we are (and having imbibed a few shandies) we didn't just calmly walk over to the Officer and ask for our photo to be taken. Oh no. We decided we would run.
Aaaaaand down she goes.
I've had more than my fair share of sprains and I know when a sprain is a bad sprain and this was a doozy. This was the one that made me think that my lucky streak was up and I had finally, after 29 years of falling over, managed to break something. It swelled to hideous, elephantine proportions within seconds. My friends were horrified. I was mortified because I was now the centre of attention on someone else's hen do. Not cool.
It was one of the few times that I was glad I don't drive, because if I'd driven to Sheffield I would have been well up shit creek. I hoped that I'd go to bed with ice on it and it would calm down, but when I woke up I was reduced to walking about like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, dragging my lame leg behind me. With a hangover.
Note: No I did not go to A&E that night. Why? Because I have had too many Friday/Saturday nights in A&E. If it was broken it would be broken in the morning. There was nothing that was going to persuade me to go to Sheffield's A&E at 11.30pm on a Saturday night.
I got myself back to Preston on what was the most miserable train journey of my life and I was met by The Person, who stifled a laugh at my piteous state and came with me to Preston Royal Hospital, marvelling at the fact that he had lived there for 3 years and never been to the hospital, whilst I had lived there less than 24 hours before I was becoming acquainted.
It was not broken. Thankfully. And mindful of what happened the last time I was laid up with an ankle injury (oh hi blood clots!) I insisted on crutches to allow me to get about a bit.
It might not have been broken but it was, quite frankly, fucked up. In a big way. I did this back in May and even now, if I'm in heels that are more than 2 inches high I can actually feel that my ankle is weak and that it's not stable. I think I've used up my ankle's 9 lives and have stretched the tendons and muscles so much that they now resemble Nora Batty's tights.
So heed my warning.
Heels + alcohol = a not happy ankle
There's an ankle in there somewhere.
One week later...
You have been warned.