Re-starting my leg

30 minutes isn't long enough with the internationally acclaimed physio whom I've managed to cadge in some sessions with. I wish I could have him for a day, a night, a year - because I wonder if he might just be able to work a miracle out here.

When the precious time had come to a sweet end, he set me up in a state of the art equipped rehab room with a bunch of healing toys. He gave me a lot of funny exercises to do, and I listened more attentively than perhaps ever before, hanging onto his every fibre of advice. But before I got started on the various lunge crunching lude moves, he plugged me in to this completely crackers device [pictured]. Every thirty seconds, the pads would send shooting electrodes into my dilapidated defunct and nowhere to be seen thigh muscles. Under the influence of the electricity, my hibernating hunks of meat would shoot up in every direction out of nowhere, like a startled moose drenched in surprised full beams of a speeding lorry. Every few minutes the device would bleep and tell me to up the charge; what an unlikely circumstance I'd found myself in. Excruciating pain jump starting my knackered limb, but there I sat, manually and voluntarily upping the pain, hoping for signs of recovered eventual life. I managed to hit a charge of 75 - out of 1000.

I'm fairly convinced I was still full of jolts of lightning when I dived into the pool afterwards, as I swam like an endangered dolphin. Potentially this is a result of the furiously ferocious pace of the highly athletic Chamonix baths + desperately trying but continuously failing to keep up with the fine sea of butterflying bodies all around me - but I like to think that there was some sort of electromagnetic equation happening as I hit the chlorine.