This morning at my physio's, the ultrasound showed no (zero, nada) pockets of inflammation in the tendon of my right arm. Michiel officially declared my tennis elbow a thing of the past, though just to be on the safe side, I asked him to have a look at it again in three weeks time. Meanwhile, I'm supposed to train up my arm by doing some simple weight-lifting exercises.
These days you can't go anywhere without perfect strangers trying to engage you in conversation and sound you out as to what you think Oranje's chances at winning the football world championship are. Front page news this morning was that of all the newborn baby boys registered in the last month, twice as many have been given the name Wesley as was the case pre-World Cup.
I've thought about going to Amsterdam, to watch Sunday's match on the Museumplein's big screen, but a million plus people are expected to make that trek and what with the heat and the undoubted chaos that will ensue, I've decided to stay and watch it in the comfort of my own flat. I won't be alone as Allan has said he'll come down from Amsterdam to watch it with me -- he can't be doing with the madness that is likely to prevail either, so it seems.
Owners of houseboats moored in the Amsterdam canals are nervously awaiting the outcome of the match: if Oranje succeed in bringing home the Cup on Tuesday, they'll make a circuit of the canals, and the police again expect upwards of a million people to want to come down and line the route. Last time this happened, in 1988 when Oranje won the Europa Cup, several houseboats were sunk beneath the weight of daytrippers jumping onto their roofs to get a better view, and the insurance didn't cover it. And it won't if it happens this time, either.
ETA: It looks like the good burghers of Amsterdam needn't worry: Paul the Octopus has predicted another Spanish win.