|Image from here|
As the game progressed, one of the big Tongan lads went down in a heap. Boom. Crash. The commentators happily reported his age and weight (125kg) and filled in valuable viewing time with stats and things while the camera focused on the lovely blonde physiotherapist who had raced onto the field to help the injured player.
Dad and my conversation went a little like this.
Dad: "Big boy".
Dad: "She looks little next to him. I wonder if she will be able to lift his leg up."
We both watch in anticipation.
Dad: "Stronger than she looks huh?"
I walked into the physio practice for my first appointment for my hip injury this morning.
I was greeting by a whippet of a physio. I wondered if she would have the strength to massage my knotted gluts and quads.
After she did her assessments, and she diagnosed me with a condition I can't even pronounce, she got to work on my troublesome spot. She was surprising strong.
Me: "You didn't happen to provide physio to a 125kg Tongan at the weekend on the sideline of a rugby match, did you?"
She: "As a matter of fact I did."
Me: "Thought I had seen you somewhere before".
Strapped up and smelling of anti-inflammatories, I left with more of a limp than I went in with. It will be a process but my blonde whippet will see me fighting fit for the Oxfam trailwalker in August. If she can work magic on the rugby pitch, she can work magic on me too.
Have you had a coincidence like this before?