THERE was a solemn air hanging over the five-a-side football team as it trudged off the pitch earlier this week.

It can get pretty nasty on the battle field, tackles fly in, bodies groan and people tumble. In football there is no such thing as a friendly. And in a war there are always casualties.

I wasn't actually present myself, having disowned my team-mates for a brief fling with a seven-a-side team (a disappointing affair and one which I couldn't stamp my usual authority on at all. And one in which the boss played!), but I am assured it was a sickening sight. And one all too familiar.

After going up for a header with a former Evening Telegraph Sports Monkey (who is still protesting his innocence), Internet Andy came down to earth with a bump. And a broken ankle.

He was quickly dispatched to Blackburn Royal for some three-star-rating treatment and is recovering at home as I write. My heart goes out to the poor soul --the break was so bad it required surgery -- but I also feel a touch of the old envy.

The same thing happened to me some two years ago and although I didn't need a metal plate inserted to mend my broken bones, it was a bad break. Actually it was a lucky break.

The first few days were a nightmare. The endless trips to the infirmary to be prodded and probed. The mummification of the bottom half of your leg with a weighty plaster cast and of course the initial agony. Breaking an ankle is no pain-free picnic.

Then there are the crutches to get used to. With your injured leg hanging heavily in mid-air, these stabilisers become your new legs and take a bit of practice. One false move and the other leg will soon follow the fate of its stricken counterpart.

The other downside is the sense of helplessness. The Long Suffering Marjorie and I had just moved in together and for three months I was at her mercy. If she refused to make a cup of tea, my mouth went dry. If she refused to cook, my belly lay empty.

Each morning before she went to work she would have to lay out a bowl, spoon and a box of cornflakes, so that when I surfaced (hours later) all I would need to do was hop in with some milk. It was also a good indication of her mood. If I had annoyed her I would find my breakfast table empty, which meant numerous hops to the kitchen to fend for myself. Sounds easy I know, but I'm not much of a hopper, even withoutthe added weight of a plaster cast. And because of the nature of the break, putting my foot down at any time was not an option.

But after a week or so, the routine became familiar and rather enjoyable. My sleeping pattern had changed beyond recognition, affording me time to get in to all the bad American sit-coms (Grace Under Fire was a particular favourite), and I would surface the next just in time for day-time TV.

I would sit there with my foot up -- doctor's orders -- and while away the hours reading and listening to music. The timing of it all was perfect too. It was summer and my pal Fred the Dread had just bought a camper-van. It was only polite that we should try it out ourselves. We spent a couple of days in the Lakes before making our way to London - while work (a previous paper) thought I was sitting at home all day and even felt sorry for me.

There were downsides of course, which Internet Andy will soon discover. Endless itching could only be satisfied with careful navigation of an implement long enough to reach down the plaster cast. I found a chopstick was more than suitable.

And bath-time was a chore. Showers were out and being mindful of not getting the cast wet required me to suspend my leg in the air or hang it over the side of the bath. Not a pretty sight but needs must.

But it was a memorable three months and not to be sniffed at.