Frankie and I wake to the sound of voices coming from the restaurant outside our door. At first I am a little irritated that people are so inconsiderate to be talking so loudly early in the morning. Then I realise one of the voices is Becky. Becky? It can't be that early. Frankie squeals 'It's 9.30' and I jump out of bed with a start. Frankie's hopping around on her one good leg trying to get dressed so we don't miss breakfast. It's like something from a cartoon as we hop around each other. In 5 min flat we are in the restaurant. Becky is sat there bleary eyed, still in her Pjs.
After breakfast, we purloin plastic bags, sellotape, duck tape and micropore to protect Frankie's cast from getting wet whilst she negotiates the shower and washing her hair. By the end of it we are both knackered and hot, and in need of another shower. But no time to waste. We have tickets for the badminton and need to make our way there early to allow extra time for Frankie. Our taxi driver tries every entrance to get us in close to the arena but, eventually we are forced to go in the designated gate. This means a 1.5km hop for Frankie to the arena, but we don't tell her so as not to dishearten her before we start. We try to get a wheelchair and, in true Indian style, everyone is desperate to help, but fails to deliver. Each 100m in the baking sun is a huge effort and Frankie quickly gets exhausted. Each time, some kind volunteer provides a seat and water and sends another volunteer to look for a wheelchair. 10 mins later they come back, apologetic and empty handed. Before long, we reach a huge ramp up a bridge over the main road. Frankie is completely dismayed and another seat is provided whilst someone else goes in search of a non-existent wheelchair. On the bridge, one of the volunteers has been charged with a megaphone to tell spectators to keep to the right. No-one is listening. David grabs the megaphone and identifies individuals blatantly flaunting the instruction. “ You, in the blue shirt, I said 'Keep on the right'. Yes. That means you”.
It lightens the mood but, inevitably, we have to face getting Frankie over the ramp. David and I try to carry her in a chair but the chair nearly collapses, leaving Frankie ever more traumatised. Eventually, we make the arena. The final straw comes when the metal tube of the crutch pierces the rubber on the end and she nearly goes flying again on the marble floor. We spend most of the match trying to work out how we're going to get her back. But we have the best seats in the house, in the front row, opposite the main camera filming the game. England are fighting for the bronze medal and we cheer them on noisily. By the end of the 3rd match, Frankie is still exhausted from the effort of getting there and I offer to take her home whilst the others watch the rest of the match. But there's no way she's able to hop on the crutches and I set off on a mission to track down the elusive wheelchair I am sure must exist somewhere in the stadium. Ten minutes later, having negotiated security and the chief medical officer to the athletes, I return triumphant, with the only wheelchair in the entire stadium and 2 assistants (or maybe they are the wheelchair's personal security guards). They take us down to the nearest main gate and commandeer a tuk tuk for us. His licence number is taken and he is instructed to take us straight to the hotel and to phone the security guard when we are safely delivered to our destination or risk losing his licence. Exhausted, we both collapse on the bed in our room. If you happen to be watching the England bronze medal, we are right behind the players. You can tell it's us by Frankie's big white cast shining out.
After breakfast, we purloin plastic bags, sellotape, duck tape and micropore to protect Frankie's cast from getting wet whilst she negotiates the shower and washing her hair. By the end of it we are both knackered and hot, and in need of another shower. But no time to waste. We have tickets for the badminton and need to make our way there early to allow extra time for Frankie. Our taxi driver tries every entrance to get us in close to the arena but, eventually we are forced to go in the designated gate. This means a 1.5km hop for Frankie to the arena, but we don't tell her so as not to dishearten her before we start. We try to get a wheelchair and, in true Indian style, everyone is desperate to help, but fails to deliver. Each 100m in the baking sun is a huge effort and Frankie quickly gets exhausted. Each time, some kind volunteer provides a seat and water and sends another volunteer to look for a wheelchair. 10 mins later they come back, apologetic and empty handed. Before long, we reach a huge ramp up a bridge over the main road. Frankie is completely dismayed and another seat is provided whilst someone else goes in search of a non-existent wheelchair. On the bridge, one of the volunteers has been charged with a megaphone to tell spectators to keep to the right. No-one is listening. David grabs the megaphone and identifies individuals blatantly flaunting the instruction. “ You, in the blue shirt, I said 'Keep on the right'. Yes. That means you”.
It lightens the mood but, inevitably, we have to face getting Frankie over the ramp. David and I try to carry her in a chair but the chair nearly collapses, leaving Frankie ever more traumatised. Eventually, we make the arena. The final straw comes when the metal tube of the crutch pierces the rubber on the end and she nearly goes flying again on the marble floor. We spend most of the match trying to work out how we're going to get her back. But we have the best seats in the house, in the front row, opposite the main camera filming the game. England are fighting for the bronze medal and we cheer them on noisily. By the end of the 3rd match, Frankie is still exhausted from the effort of getting there and I offer to take her home whilst the others watch the rest of the match. But there's no way she's able to hop on the crutches and I set off on a mission to track down the elusive wheelchair I am sure must exist somewhere in the stadium. Ten minutes later, having negotiated security and the chief medical officer to the athletes, I return triumphant, with the only wheelchair in the entire stadium and 2 assistants (or maybe they are the wheelchair's personal security guards). They take us down to the nearest main gate and commandeer a tuk tuk for us. His licence number is taken and he is instructed to take us straight to the hotel and to phone the security guard when we are safely delivered to our destination or risk losing his licence. Exhausted, we both collapse on the bed in our room. If you happen to be watching the England bronze medal, we are right behind the players. You can tell it's us by Frankie's big white cast shining out.