I fell like TB.
Remember that leaked document from one of the chosen one's advisers, about leaving with the crowd begging for more. Well that's got to be the aim. The only problem is pulling it off. Do you know, what really pisses me off is that TB got away with it. After all the months (or were they years?) he's gone and he managed it with his usual glib satisfied smirk. Bastard.
Anyway, not me. I'm just signing off quietly. You see, the problem is...real life. It's caught up with me. The Broken Leg Diaries are no more; the leg is better. Well, almost. I've ditched the crutch and am back to my normal grouchy self. So...work, life. Get on with it. It just feels odd to keep dipping into cyberspace when there's so much going on in the real world.
Actually, I rather enjoyed it. The broken leg, that is. Gave me a chane to jump off the treadmill for a bit. Made me realise that I quite like my life after all! Even if I am off to spend all day manning the bbq at daughter and son number 1's school fete in the eye of a storm, it's not all bad.
So, it's time to burst back out of the wardrobe and leave cyberspace behind. Oh well, I know where to go next time I want to get away...just open the wardrobe door (or laptop) and climb in...wade through the moth eaten detritus of everyday life and follow the path to the lamp post in the distance. So bye for now.
It's been a blast.
World peace...there's a thought, maybe I'll sort that out. Piece of cake.
Saturday, 30 June 2007
Wednesday, 2 May 2007
Where am I...
"Christopher!" I look to the right. A small Phillipine nurse was standing by my bed. I was in a big blue room. Everything swimming. "Christopher!". I look to the left. Same nurse. How the...? "Christopher!" Right. "Christopher!" Left. "Christopher!" Right and left simultaneously. This is not good. Oxygen mask on. Very itchy face. Trying to rip oxygen mask off to scratch face. "Christopher!"
Why would you have 2 identical Phillipino twins in the recovery room of a hospital? I mean, I can think of plenty of occasions when such a luxury would be most welcome, but this was not one of them, believe me. I thought I was in the Ipcress File; you know, the bit when Michael Caine is injected with hallucenogens in some weird warehouse in East Germany. The twins then kept swapping sides, going into a little huddle and then reappearing as if by magic and hissing"Christopher!" in my ears.
It reminded me of the Thrower twins. Scott and Mischa were identical twins at school with me. Both very good cricketers. Scott was a very good bowler and Mischa a very good batsman, although it might have been the other way around. They had a great little ruse going. Scott would bowl one over and then he would go into a huddle with his brother; they would wander about a bit and then Mischa would wander up the other end to bowl. But (have you guessed?) it wasn't Mischa after all; it was Scott, who proceeded to bowl from both ends (not at the same time, clearly). Clever, eh? And guess what, when Mischa was batting and was out, he'd wander back to the pavillion, probably have a couple of fags (it was boarding school after all) and when all zipped up again, walk in for another knock at the fall of the next wicket. The cheek of it. You should have seen them at school disco's...
Anyway, the Phillipinos finally let me out of their clutches and wheeled me back to my room. The good news was that the cricket was over. When I was wheeled down to theatre (I've always wanted to say that), England were making a bad fist of trying to beat South Africa. Come to think of it, the Throwers would have done better. Michael Vaughan had decided that the best way to win limited overs matches was to score as slowly as possible, and was doing rather well at it. Meanwhile, at the other end the rest of the team had cottoned onto the fact that there was something fundamentally flawed about this approach and so were getting out in ever more ridiculous efforts to get the ball off the square. 120 all out, somehting like that. By the time I got back to the comfort of room 5 of the Coombe Wing, we had been well and truly thrashed.
At least I had the football to watch, Man Utd playing Sheffield Utd at home. Every point crucial in the tightest end to a Championship for years. Before I went under Doc Proc's knife, I had thought, "Oooh, that'll be nice, I can come back to the room in time for the second half and relax after the operation watching my beloved Reds rack up another 3 points". Ha, bloody ha. You know what it's like wathcing tv when you're drunk? You kind of have to close one eye and try and stop the picture spinning...
Well, you should check out heroin, if you haven't already (the square ones amongst you, loyal readers). Wow. Spinning? One picture in the middle, gently rotating, with several around the ouside each rotating and moving around the central one clockwise. Or anticlockwise. Really trying to see the picture and the score, but head lolling back and forth. Not a prayer. Need to speak to Chief Nurse, get me my phone. "Christopher!". Piss off. "Christopher, keep the oxygen mask on". Piss off, this is going to get nasty. "Honey, sssssssssssmmmmmmmeeeeeee. I'mmmmmoooookkkkkk. Lovvvvvveeeeeeeeyyuuuuuuuooo." Try texting on heroin, next time you take it. Not easy. God knows who I tried to phone or text during that long night. Sorry, whatever I said. I have a vague recollection of talking to the Accountant who was on a business trip in China; he couldn't care less about the operation, just wanted to tell me he'd had a dodgy prawn and been vomiting all day. At least, that's what I think he said.
Then I suddenly had an overwhelming urge. To pee. "IIIIneeeeeeeedaaaaaaawwweeeeeee". God, I was beginning to sound like number 1 son. So the nurse duly arrived with carboard pee bottle and I assumed the now well known position. And waited. And waited. Nothing. You know that feeling when you really need a wee, I mean, really, really? Stop the car. Now. Too late. That kind of feeling. Well, that's how it was, but I just couldn't go. Nothing. Push. Relax. Think of weeing. Think of something else. Every trick in the book. The bloody nurse even opened the bathroom door, flushed the loo and turned on all the taps in an effort to start the flood. Nothing.
So I drank, hitherto the answer to most of my dilemmas. Sugary tea, water, sugary tea, water. Cup on cup, litre after litre.
Nothing.
For 3 bloody hours I lay on my side with bottle in place. Agony.
And then the dam burst. At 2am I peed, weed, pissed, wazzed, widdled, piddled. A torrent of New Orleansean proportions. They couldn't bring the bottles fast enough. Litre after litre, pure as the driven snow. And so it went on, hour after hour, all night and through most of the next day. When goes in must come out.
After all that, guess waht I need? A demain...
Why would you have 2 identical Phillipino twins in the recovery room of a hospital? I mean, I can think of plenty of occasions when such a luxury would be most welcome, but this was not one of them, believe me. I thought I was in the Ipcress File; you know, the bit when Michael Caine is injected with hallucenogens in some weird warehouse in East Germany. The twins then kept swapping sides, going into a little huddle and then reappearing as if by magic and hissing"Christopher!" in my ears.
It reminded me of the Thrower twins. Scott and Mischa were identical twins at school with me. Both very good cricketers. Scott was a very good bowler and Mischa a very good batsman, although it might have been the other way around. They had a great little ruse going. Scott would bowl one over and then he would go into a huddle with his brother; they would wander about a bit and then Mischa would wander up the other end to bowl. But (have you guessed?) it wasn't Mischa after all; it was Scott, who proceeded to bowl from both ends (not at the same time, clearly). Clever, eh? And guess what, when Mischa was batting and was out, he'd wander back to the pavillion, probably have a couple of fags (it was boarding school after all) and when all zipped up again, walk in for another knock at the fall of the next wicket. The cheek of it. You should have seen them at school disco's...
Anyway, the Phillipinos finally let me out of their clutches and wheeled me back to my room. The good news was that the cricket was over. When I was wheeled down to theatre (I've always wanted to say that), England were making a bad fist of trying to beat South Africa. Come to think of it, the Throwers would have done better. Michael Vaughan had decided that the best way to win limited overs matches was to score as slowly as possible, and was doing rather well at it. Meanwhile, at the other end the rest of the team had cottoned onto the fact that there was something fundamentally flawed about this approach and so were getting out in ever more ridiculous efforts to get the ball off the square. 120 all out, somehting like that. By the time I got back to the comfort of room 5 of the Coombe Wing, we had been well and truly thrashed.
At least I had the football to watch, Man Utd playing Sheffield Utd at home. Every point crucial in the tightest end to a Championship for years. Before I went under Doc Proc's knife, I had thought, "Oooh, that'll be nice, I can come back to the room in time for the second half and relax after the operation watching my beloved Reds rack up another 3 points". Ha, bloody ha. You know what it's like wathcing tv when you're drunk? You kind of have to close one eye and try and stop the picture spinning...
Well, you should check out heroin, if you haven't already (the square ones amongst you, loyal readers). Wow. Spinning? One picture in the middle, gently rotating, with several around the ouside each rotating and moving around the central one clockwise. Or anticlockwise. Really trying to see the picture and the score, but head lolling back and forth. Not a prayer. Need to speak to Chief Nurse, get me my phone. "Christopher!". Piss off. "Christopher, keep the oxygen mask on". Piss off, this is going to get nasty. "Honey, sssssssssssmmmmmmmeeeeeee. I'mmmmmoooookkkkkk. Lovvvvvveeeeeeeeyyuuuuuuuooo." Try texting on heroin, next time you take it. Not easy. God knows who I tried to phone or text during that long night. Sorry, whatever I said. I have a vague recollection of talking to the Accountant who was on a business trip in China; he couldn't care less about the operation, just wanted to tell me he'd had a dodgy prawn and been vomiting all day. At least, that's what I think he said.
Then I suddenly had an overwhelming urge. To pee. "IIIIneeeeeeeedaaaaaaawwweeeeeee". God, I was beginning to sound like number 1 son. So the nurse duly arrived with carboard pee bottle and I assumed the now well known position. And waited. And waited. Nothing. You know that feeling when you really need a wee, I mean, really, really? Stop the car. Now. Too late. That kind of feeling. Well, that's how it was, but I just couldn't go. Nothing. Push. Relax. Think of weeing. Think of something else. Every trick in the book. The bloody nurse even opened the bathroom door, flushed the loo and turned on all the taps in an effort to start the flood. Nothing.
So I drank, hitherto the answer to most of my dilemmas. Sugary tea, water, sugary tea, water. Cup on cup, litre after litre.
Nothing.
For 3 bloody hours I lay on my side with bottle in place. Agony.
And then the dam burst. At 2am I peed, weed, pissed, wazzed, widdled, piddled. A torrent of New Orleansean proportions. They couldn't bring the bottles fast enough. Litre after litre, pure as the driven snow. And so it went on, hour after hour, all night and through most of the next day. When goes in must come out.
After all that, guess waht I need? A demain...
Monday, 30 April 2007
Look away now...
But what did they do to me between "That's the heroin, then..." and "Where am I?"? The truth is, I'm not sure. "What did they do to me whilst I was asleep?" became my obsession. Sounds a bit like some B Grade porn movie, but I can assure you it was more painful than even that. Here's the simple truth.
First, heel pin. But why, hero, we thought you had broken your leg? Well, for the sheer brutality that followed Doc Proc needed to fix my heel to the operating table; a pin each side of the heel and attached to the table, so that my knee was flexed and the foot flat. What the hell did he think I was going to do, run away?
Then, "Scalpel". Oh my God, I was in my own episode of ER. Those of a squeamish disposition, look away now. That'll be Bob the Punch then. In fact, he's probably collapsed by now; he lost his bottle completely back in the ring in Eastbourne all those years ago. Never been the same since. In fact, rumour has it Mick the Dive Ross could even see him off now. Sporting hero to zero in the flash of an eye. Tragic.
Anyway, Doc Proc made the cut. Just over the left knee cap, about 4 or 5 inches long. How did he know it was the left one? Good question, loyal reader. By ingenious trick learned in medical school. Before the operation he had come to see me, to tell me what he was going to do. At that point, of course, I had full length plaster cast on left leg. What was his first question? "Which leg are we going to operate on?". No kidding. I laughed and murmered something like "Yeah, funny", but he didn't smile, he just said "The left?". Now I was afraid, very afraid. And as if the plaster cast was not enough of a clue he took out a huge black (oh my God, I didn't realise I was going to star in this porn/snuff movie) marker pen. Then he drew an arrow on my left foot. The wonders of modern science, eh? It's all very well, but given that I still can't bend the bloody leg and am not allowed to get it wet, I still have that arrow staring up at me like some grim reminder of horrors past.
Well, he did get the right leg. I mean the left leg. Thank God for medical genius. So, he cut the knee open and then made a hole in the top of the tibia. That's the big one that attaches the knee bone to the ankle bone. Feel it now, the shin bone to you and me. Not the fibula, that's the little one next to it. Now, did you know that the tibia is in fact hollow? Maybe you did. Well, it's not hollow like, say, an Easter egg, or a scaffold pole. It's got stuff like marrow and blood and, well, goo inside it (still with me, hang in there, we've only just started). The plan was for Doc Proc to put an 18 inch (God, I'm tall) pin down the middle of the bone and fix it with 2 screws. So, he had to tunnel a hole through the goo, so to speak.
Doc Proc used a sort of drill to gently (or so he assured me) tunnel out a 12 millimetre diameter hole through the goo. That's quite a lot in my view, just over one whole centimetre if my maths is right. Once that's done, all he needs to do is slide the pin down from the knee to the ankle. Easy, eh? Well, yes, easy at first. The trouble comes when the pin gets to within about 3 ot 4 inches of the ankle. The bone is bowed slightly, so it sort of has to go round a bend. Know the bloody feeling. So what does Doc Proc, he of the Pentel marker, do?
Gets a mallet of course. No kidding. Now I understand why I needed (a) a lot of heroin and (b) a pin in my heel. He belted the top of the pin until it was all the way through to the ankle. Have you ever seen that Stephen King film, the one where a mad woman (Kathy Bates) finds the famous author (James Caan, I think?) after he has had a car crash and keeps him hostage, because she is his "greatest fan"? Malice, I think it's called. The bit where she 'hobbles' him by whacking his already broken ankle with a sledgehammer. Get the picture...
Then, as if he hadn't had enough fun already, Doc Proc drills 2 holes through the bone. One under the knee and one above the ankle. He threads a screw through each, which passes through the pin and, hey presto, all done! A few stitches, then down the pub for Doc Proc and into recovery for your hero.
Recovery, hey? Hmmmm. More of that later.
PS: Just had the Matriarch to stay this weekend. Bless, she and sister looked after your hero royally. Well, in fact they just fought over who could hold daughter number 2. She loves the blog. Didn't know I could write. Reminds me of her famous comment on that very clever, eloquent friend of her's, Roger Coombes. "Dahling, that lovely man Roger, he's soooo araldite."
First, heel pin. But why, hero, we thought you had broken your leg? Well, for the sheer brutality that followed Doc Proc needed to fix my heel to the operating table; a pin each side of the heel and attached to the table, so that my knee was flexed and the foot flat. What the hell did he think I was going to do, run away?
Then, "Scalpel". Oh my God, I was in my own episode of ER. Those of a squeamish disposition, look away now. That'll be Bob the Punch then. In fact, he's probably collapsed by now; he lost his bottle completely back in the ring in Eastbourne all those years ago. Never been the same since. In fact, rumour has it Mick the Dive Ross could even see him off now. Sporting hero to zero in the flash of an eye. Tragic.
Anyway, Doc Proc made the cut. Just over the left knee cap, about 4 or 5 inches long. How did he know it was the left one? Good question, loyal reader. By ingenious trick learned in medical school. Before the operation he had come to see me, to tell me what he was going to do. At that point, of course, I had full length plaster cast on left leg. What was his first question? "Which leg are we going to operate on?". No kidding. I laughed and murmered something like "Yeah, funny", but he didn't smile, he just said "The left?". Now I was afraid, very afraid. And as if the plaster cast was not enough of a clue he took out a huge black (oh my God, I didn't realise I was going to star in this porn/snuff movie) marker pen. Then he drew an arrow on my left foot. The wonders of modern science, eh? It's all very well, but given that I still can't bend the bloody leg and am not allowed to get it wet, I still have that arrow staring up at me like some grim reminder of horrors past.
Well, he did get the right leg. I mean the left leg. Thank God for medical genius. So, he cut the knee open and then made a hole in the top of the tibia. That's the big one that attaches the knee bone to the ankle bone. Feel it now, the shin bone to you and me. Not the fibula, that's the little one next to it. Now, did you know that the tibia is in fact hollow? Maybe you did. Well, it's not hollow like, say, an Easter egg, or a scaffold pole. It's got stuff like marrow and blood and, well, goo inside it (still with me, hang in there, we've only just started). The plan was for Doc Proc to put an 18 inch (God, I'm tall) pin down the middle of the bone and fix it with 2 screws. So, he had to tunnel a hole through the goo, so to speak.
Doc Proc used a sort of drill to gently (or so he assured me) tunnel out a 12 millimetre diameter hole through the goo. That's quite a lot in my view, just over one whole centimetre if my maths is right. Once that's done, all he needs to do is slide the pin down from the knee to the ankle. Easy, eh? Well, yes, easy at first. The trouble comes when the pin gets to within about 3 ot 4 inches of the ankle. The bone is bowed slightly, so it sort of has to go round a bend. Know the bloody feeling. So what does Doc Proc, he of the Pentel marker, do?
Gets a mallet of course. No kidding. Now I understand why I needed (a) a lot of heroin and (b) a pin in my heel. He belted the top of the pin until it was all the way through to the ankle. Have you ever seen that Stephen King film, the one where a mad woman (Kathy Bates) finds the famous author (James Caan, I think?) after he has had a car crash and keeps him hostage, because she is his "greatest fan"? Malice, I think it's called. The bit where she 'hobbles' him by whacking his already broken ankle with a sledgehammer. Get the picture...
Then, as if he hadn't had enough fun already, Doc Proc drills 2 holes through the bone. One under the knee and one above the ankle. He threads a screw through each, which passes through the pin and, hey presto, all done! A few stitches, then down the pub for Doc Proc and into recovery for your hero.
Recovery, hey? Hmmmm. More of that later.
PS: Just had the Matriarch to stay this weekend. Bless, she and sister looked after your hero royally. Well, in fact they just fought over who could hold daughter number 2. She loves the blog. Didn't know I could write. Reminds me of her famous comment on that very clever, eloquent friend of her's, Roger Coombes. "Dahling, that lovely man Roger, he's soooo araldite."
Sunday, 29 April 2007
I'm a Lady...
Let's get down to the nitty gritty of broken bones, the blood and guts. The charming gourmand had, as we know, suggested that I might like to entrust myself to Monsieur Le Churgien Orthopaedic in Annecy, but I declined his kind offer. The Matriarch thought that sounded like a good idea..."Really, dahling, are you sure? I mean, they do know what they're doing out here, broken bones are two a penny." I think Punch agreed. Hardly out of the surgery before he was suggesting that letting the locals loose on my athletic limb might be wise.
So, I did something extraordinary. I didn't do what they wanted. Shock horror! At the ripe old age of 38 I could hear the shackles snapping. Oh no, that was in fact my tibia. In any event, I was going to stick to my guns on this one. As long as they agreed. Oh dear, will I ever be my own man? Yes, yes, yes. I was going home...
...into the caring hands of Mr Proctor. Doc Proc is the rather charming David Walliams lookalike into whose care I was thrust by those nice people from BUPA. "Well, you have 2 options", he offered; "Either you can stay in the above knee cast for about 9 months or...", well, I didn't let him stop. "I'll take the other". I mean, imagine having to worry about falling over in the bathroom and being rescued by The Matron until Christmas. Thanks, but no thanks.
But maybe I should have let him finish. The alternative? Five days in Kingston Hospital and an 18 inch metal rod. Oooo, Matron. So, before I knew it I was saying goodbye to the kids. But for how long? I'd never had a general anaesthetic before and the mind whirred...not that I am one to worry about these things, but what if I was paralysed, left speechless, blind? What if I actually...died? See how good I am at keeping these things in perspective. Brave, moi. I can't remember the last time I actually went into hospital for treatment on myself...
Oh yes I can. I was washing up after a curry and champagne-fest (how working class! Is it loo or toilet, I can never remember; I'm such a paradox) with The Chief Nurse (when still Chief Girlfriend), Jan and Tors. I managed to snap a glass. There was a cut on my wrist. The left one, just on the little crease below the palm. Looked bad. Looked deep. I yelled, Jan came running. The blood was spurting. Had I it a vein, an artery? Was there a piece of glass lodged dangerously close to a major vessel? Jan and I (in fact, I) thought that an xray was the only way to find out. I knew at that point that Chief Girlfriend was the one for me. "Whatever. Pass the dahl, Tors." So, that was the last time I went to hospital. Long wait, no glass. But I have got a scar. Well, not really a scar, but you can see it, honest.
But there was no escaping it this time. I was in for it, laying myself open to Doc Proc. Oh God, what was he going to do to me? I just had visions of him dressed in his gown running into the theatre shouting "I'm a Lady". At about 3.30pm the anaesthetist came to introduce himself. Well, he might as well have said "Hi, I'm Matt Lucas". Oh shit, I wasn't in hospital after all, I was on the set of Little Britain. I fully expected Tom Baker to start the voice over...
"Here we are in Queenston Hospital, on the broken leg ward. Mr Stevo has gone and had a big owwwweeee and has asked Doc Proc to carve him open and stitch him up. Doc Proc is only too delighted and calls on his faithful assistant Dr Grim to put the big fella to sleep. Oh look, here's the nurse..."
"Leave the big fella alone, he's mine, all mine...I'M THE ONLY GAY IN THIS HOSPITAL. And when he's asleep I'm going to take good care of him"
Oh God. I mean I know its been a little while, what with the recent arrival of daughter number 2 and an above knee cast and all that, but I'm really not that desperate. Anyway, the Chief Nurse has had alot on her mind. And I haven't. Always a bad combination. Right, back to business...
So, at 5 on the dot comes the fateful knock on the door. "Ready?" Oh yes, can't wait. Not like the anaesthetist, who seemed to have lots of other things to do. I seemed to wait for about 20 minutes in this little room next to the theatre, watching Doc Proc sharpen his tools (oh, stop it!). Everywhere I looked was certain death. Big posters on all the walls telling people how to carry out emergency CPR. I much prefer the Civil Procedure Rules and I never thought I'd say that. Drugs, everywhere. And the nurse, the bloody nurse. "Had one of these before?"; "No"; "Don't worry, you won't feel a thing"; "Thought that was the whole point". I thought for a moment he was going to say "Been anywhere nice for your holidays?" Where do they find these people?
At last in swanned Doctor Death. Canula, in. "Right, that's the heroin..."
"...where am I?" And that was that. Except it wasn't, it was only the beginning.
God, I hate drugs. The problem is, you can't really say no, can you. Dreadful thing, peer pressure...
So, I did something extraordinary. I didn't do what they wanted. Shock horror! At the ripe old age of 38 I could hear the shackles snapping. Oh no, that was in fact my tibia. In any event, I was going to stick to my guns on this one. As long as they agreed. Oh dear, will I ever be my own man? Yes, yes, yes. I was going home...
...into the caring hands of Mr Proctor. Doc Proc is the rather charming David Walliams lookalike into whose care I was thrust by those nice people from BUPA. "Well, you have 2 options", he offered; "Either you can stay in the above knee cast for about 9 months or...", well, I didn't let him stop. "I'll take the other". I mean, imagine having to worry about falling over in the bathroom and being rescued by The Matron until Christmas. Thanks, but no thanks.
But maybe I should have let him finish. The alternative? Five days in Kingston Hospital and an 18 inch metal rod. Oooo, Matron. So, before I knew it I was saying goodbye to the kids. But for how long? I'd never had a general anaesthetic before and the mind whirred...not that I am one to worry about these things, but what if I was paralysed, left speechless, blind? What if I actually...died? See how good I am at keeping these things in perspective. Brave, moi. I can't remember the last time I actually went into hospital for treatment on myself...
Oh yes I can. I was washing up after a curry and champagne-fest (how working class! Is it loo or toilet, I can never remember; I'm such a paradox) with The Chief Nurse (when still Chief Girlfriend), Jan and Tors. I managed to snap a glass. There was a cut on my wrist. The left one, just on the little crease below the palm. Looked bad. Looked deep. I yelled, Jan came running. The blood was spurting. Had I it a vein, an artery? Was there a piece of glass lodged dangerously close to a major vessel? Jan and I (in fact, I) thought that an xray was the only way to find out. I knew at that point that Chief Girlfriend was the one for me. "Whatever. Pass the dahl, Tors." So, that was the last time I went to hospital. Long wait, no glass. But I have got a scar. Well, not really a scar, but you can see it, honest.
But there was no escaping it this time. I was in for it, laying myself open to Doc Proc. Oh God, what was he going to do to me? I just had visions of him dressed in his gown running into the theatre shouting "I'm a Lady". At about 3.30pm the anaesthetist came to introduce himself. Well, he might as well have said "Hi, I'm Matt Lucas". Oh shit, I wasn't in hospital after all, I was on the set of Little Britain. I fully expected Tom Baker to start the voice over...
"Here we are in Queenston Hospital, on the broken leg ward. Mr Stevo has gone and had a big owwwweeee and has asked Doc Proc to carve him open and stitch him up. Doc Proc is only too delighted and calls on his faithful assistant Dr Grim to put the big fella to sleep. Oh look, here's the nurse..."
"Leave the big fella alone, he's mine, all mine...I'M THE ONLY GAY IN THIS HOSPITAL. And when he's asleep I'm going to take good care of him"
Oh God. I mean I know its been a little while, what with the recent arrival of daughter number 2 and an above knee cast and all that, but I'm really not that desperate. Anyway, the Chief Nurse has had alot on her mind. And I haven't. Always a bad combination. Right, back to business...
So, at 5 on the dot comes the fateful knock on the door. "Ready?" Oh yes, can't wait. Not like the anaesthetist, who seemed to have lots of other things to do. I seemed to wait for about 20 minutes in this little room next to the theatre, watching Doc Proc sharpen his tools (oh, stop it!). Everywhere I looked was certain death. Big posters on all the walls telling people how to carry out emergency CPR. I much prefer the Civil Procedure Rules and I never thought I'd say that. Drugs, everywhere. And the nurse, the bloody nurse. "Had one of these before?"; "No"; "Don't worry, you won't feel a thing"; "Thought that was the whole point". I thought for a moment he was going to say "Been anywhere nice for your holidays?" Where do they find these people?
At last in swanned Doctor Death. Canula, in. "Right, that's the heroin..."
"...where am I?" And that was that. Except it wasn't, it was only the beginning.
God, I hate drugs. The problem is, you can't really say no, can you. Dreadful thing, peer pressure...
Tuesday, 24 April 2007
How dignified...
Strange feeling that someone has hit the pause button for a few days. Where were we?
Bastard delivered hero to airport, after rather smugly suggesting that alpine cycling is a breeze. Actually, Eric the Bastard was charming, like the gourmand and delivered me in wheelchair to Easyjet check in.
Hmmmm, Easyjet. Difficultjet, as it happens. All very nice until they get you on the plane, then it just, "Sit there and shut up". Strung out across 3 seats with painful children everywhere; "Daddy, what's that man done to his leg?", "I think he fell over and got a big owie (owwweeee?) skiing, Tabitha, darling". No shit, Sherlock. And the air stewards? "Can you get up now, sir?". Seriously. "Well, actually, no. I happen to have a full length plaster cast on my leg. It my surprise you to know that I did not do this just to get through the airport quickly". Mind you, if you were a good steward/ess, you probably would not work for easyjet on the Gatwick/Grenoble run, would you? I mean, the Matriarch, that's proper stewardessing (verb?); the full monty, London/New York with BOAC in its heyday...
While I'm on the subject, I've always wondered how she managed to do that job. I mean, apart from the fact that she has an abject fear of flying (which can't help, can it), she seemed to have spent the entire 1960's with a 3ft beehive on her head. How did she get up and down the aisles? Come to think of it, maybe she didn't; maybe she locked herself in the loo, too frightened to come out. It's not very comfortable flying with the Matriarch; just as the plane starts to taxi she grips your hand and whispers through a haze of brandy "How do these things ever get off the ground?".
Anyway, to digress a little further, but topically. Loo or toilet? Hmmmm, the Middleton debate. Does your hero go to the loo or the toilet? Which brings me nicely to one of the more delicate aspects of breaking a leg. At last, you sigh! On the afternoon of the great event, Punch returned from the chemist with a bag of goodies. He doled out a whole series of narcotics and even some rather nice crutches. Nice blue ones with, imagine, reflectors on the ends of each arm rest. Huh? Just in case I happened to want to go out at night and walk down a busyt road. They think of everything...
Anyway, finally, with a big fanfare Punch announced he had "Bought you this...". There was I, imagining a nice tarte au pommes to cheer my spirits; should have known better. He pulled out of the bag a weird pear shaped plastic bottle with a spout at one end. "What the.....". Then it dawned. "It's come to this" I thought, "my father has actually bought me a pee bottle and, what's more, he's actually proud of it; can I sink no lower?". I smiled weakly and muttered something about not needing that bloody thing...
Bravado soon subsided and your hero soon found himself rolling to one side trying to perform the perfect bottle fill. Undignified? Depressing? Actually, no. Bloody nice! The relief of not having to schlep to the loo (?), just lying there. Marvellous.
Anyway, enough of that lavatorial stuff. Except to say that when after some 5 days nature had a rather more urgent call, one that a pee bottle could not have been expected to manage, crisis loomed. I was at home, Chief Nurse was in France. What if I needed help? The only other person present was the mother in law, the Matron. Oh my God...
Suffice to say there has never been greater incentive not to fall over...at any cost.
Dignity in tact, just. "Everything ok in there?"
"Just fine, Matron, just fine..."
Bastard delivered hero to airport, after rather smugly suggesting that alpine cycling is a breeze. Actually, Eric the Bastard was charming, like the gourmand and delivered me in wheelchair to Easyjet check in.
Hmmmm, Easyjet. Difficultjet, as it happens. All very nice until they get you on the plane, then it just, "Sit there and shut up". Strung out across 3 seats with painful children everywhere; "Daddy, what's that man done to his leg?", "I think he fell over and got a big owie (owwweeee?) skiing, Tabitha, darling". No shit, Sherlock. And the air stewards? "Can you get up now, sir?". Seriously. "Well, actually, no. I happen to have a full length plaster cast on my leg. It my surprise you to know that I did not do this just to get through the airport quickly". Mind you, if you were a good steward/ess, you probably would not work for easyjet on the Gatwick/Grenoble run, would you? I mean, the Matriarch, that's proper stewardessing (verb?); the full monty, London/New York with BOAC in its heyday...
While I'm on the subject, I've always wondered how she managed to do that job. I mean, apart from the fact that she has an abject fear of flying (which can't help, can it), she seemed to have spent the entire 1960's with a 3ft beehive on her head. How did she get up and down the aisles? Come to think of it, maybe she didn't; maybe she locked herself in the loo, too frightened to come out. It's not very comfortable flying with the Matriarch; just as the plane starts to taxi she grips your hand and whispers through a haze of brandy "How do these things ever get off the ground?".
Anyway, to digress a little further, but topically. Loo or toilet? Hmmmm, the Middleton debate. Does your hero go to the loo or the toilet? Which brings me nicely to one of the more delicate aspects of breaking a leg. At last, you sigh! On the afternoon of the great event, Punch returned from the chemist with a bag of goodies. He doled out a whole series of narcotics and even some rather nice crutches. Nice blue ones with, imagine, reflectors on the ends of each arm rest. Huh? Just in case I happened to want to go out at night and walk down a busyt road. They think of everything...
Anyway, finally, with a big fanfare Punch announced he had "Bought you this...". There was I, imagining a nice tarte au pommes to cheer my spirits; should have known better. He pulled out of the bag a weird pear shaped plastic bottle with a spout at one end. "What the.....". Then it dawned. "It's come to this" I thought, "my father has actually bought me a pee bottle and, what's more, he's actually proud of it; can I sink no lower?". I smiled weakly and muttered something about not needing that bloody thing...
Bravado soon subsided and your hero soon found himself rolling to one side trying to perform the perfect bottle fill. Undignified? Depressing? Actually, no. Bloody nice! The relief of not having to schlep to the loo (?), just lying there. Marvellous.
Anyway, enough of that lavatorial stuff. Except to say that when after some 5 days nature had a rather more urgent call, one that a pee bottle could not have been expected to manage, crisis loomed. I was at home, Chief Nurse was in France. What if I needed help? The only other person present was the mother in law, the Matron. Oh my God...
Suffice to say there has never been greater incentive not to fall over...at any cost.
Dignity in tact, just. "Everything ok in there?"
"Just fine, Matron, just fine..."
Monday, 23 April 2007
Whoa, what happened there...
Blog guilt. I mean, why do I have to feel guilty about everything? I am now feeling bad that I haven't blogged for 6 whole days. People must be worried. Did the leg deteriorate? Did the mushroom up the nose burn get infected?
Relax. I'm still here. Had an operation last Tuesday and was in hospital until Saturday. Wish I'd bloody stayed. The problem is the drugs. I'm buggered, can hardly keep my head off the pillow. Not sure that Chief Nurse's duties extend to taking blog dictation; dare not ask.
Anyway, am going to start again in earnest, just not now. Short blogs are the way forward. You lot are busy, anyway. So, will renew hostilities afresh tomorrow. Needless to say hospital was fraught with many surreal experiences...
Relax. I'm still here. Had an operation last Tuesday and was in hospital until Saturday. Wish I'd bloody stayed. The problem is the drugs. I'm buggered, can hardly keep my head off the pillow. Not sure that Chief Nurse's duties extend to taking blog dictation; dare not ask.
Anyway, am going to start again in earnest, just not now. Short blogs are the way forward. You lot are busy, anyway. So, will renew hostilities afresh tomorrow. Needless to say hospital was fraught with many surreal experiences...
Monday, 16 April 2007
Back to reality...
A bloody beef stew. Can you believe it? Anyway, that was just the beginning of the week...
Fast forward to the last day of the holiday and we had last seen our hero chez le gourmand charmant, if that makes sense. By the time the Matriarch and Bob the Punch came back on the scene, the morphine was well and truly working its magic and all seemed fine. At least I wasn't being carted off to Annecy to go under the knife of Monsieur Le Churgien Orthopeadic; the Matriarch thought that might be wise, but if English hospitals smell I was not keen to discover what French ones were like. Much rather get home; at least you know where you are with the Superbug. So wheeled back into ambulance for trip to Chalet. Ambulance crew had changed; whimps.
Funny thing, pain. One man's amputation is another's paper cut; its entirely subjective, needless to say. I'm not sure I can remember the last time I was in pain, save for when the Chief Nurse bit me 20 seconds before arrival of number 2 daughter. But who was I to complain? And having seen that (and felt some of it) just a few months ago still didn't feel I could moan too much about a little broken bone (or even a big one; have you ever felt your tibia? It's hollow, you know). Anyway, did it hurt? I have thought about this alot, fully aware that in the 25 years since the Chapple assault I have not been embued with great fortitude. But when you think of pain, what do you imagine? A really sharp stinging pain, like slamming your finger in the car door? Or an all enveloping throb? Haven't had one of those for a while. The point is, whilst sitting on the mountain, knowing I had broken the leg, did it hurt? No. The worst bit was knowing that it was going to. Is it all in the mind?
But did it later? Well, the boot coming off was what I was really worried about, but, you know what, it was ok. I mean, I felt it and I probably howled, but that was more in expectation and fear, thruth be told. And as soon as it got in plaster it started to abate and was not as bad as I thought it was going to be. Maybe that's the answer...it's all in the expectation. Or the morphine.
My clients are often asked to describe their pain on a scale, where 10 is the worst pain you can imagine and zero is no pain. So I thought about that as things progressed. Its amazing how many say the pain they felt was initially a 10/10. Speaking from recent experience I have to say I find that hard to believe. Now, the Chief Nurse looked like she was at a 10 out of 10 in late November when daughter no 2 arrived; let me tell you, a bust leg can never even get close to that. I mean it never occurred to me to actually bite the charming gourmand; probably would have tasted quite nice, though.
But it was definitely worse the day after the fall. By the time I got out of the chalet and into Matriarch and Punch's flat, it was certainly sore. In fact, I was sore all over; massive bruise on elbow, whiplash, cuts to face and, oh yes, broken leg. No one to sue. Bollocks. And the pain; a sort of dull thudding ache. Like a massive toothache, but from the knee to my toes. But where was it on that scale? I reckon the only way to answer is to say, "how much more could I have taken?". Having already established that I am a bit of a whimp, you may be surprised to hear that the answer is "quite alot". Maybe it's easy with the benefit of hindsight, but I was nowhere near a 10; maybe a 5? I mean, the worst pain imaginable? I would hope I could cope with a lot more, frankly. Not that I am willing to try. And it suddenly occurs to me that I maybe should keep my powder dry considering I go under the knife tomorrow. Might have to revist my new found bravado in a few days...
But it does start me thinking about my clients. Never far from my mind anyway. You see, it really is all in the mind. These things are only as bad as you want them to be. Most of the people who go to pieces in the face of a seemingly innocuous injury or incident aren't making it up in the sense that they are deliberately making out that things are worse than they are, though of course there are plenty that do. Maybe an injury (especially one caused by someone else) is just the focus for a whole host of unrelated concerns. Would my leg be any more painful if it had been someone else's fault? I like to think not, but to some it might well be. Suddenly everything that is wrong with my life is not my fault. Hooray! I can blame someone else.
Note to self. Don't tell Chief Nurse I only ever got to a 5/10.
So, hunkered down in flat for a few days, feeling generally sorry for myself. Next step, getting home. Not much to tell you about that, really. Flew from Grenoble, wheelchair both ends. Taxi to Grenoble driven by Monsieur Bastard. Really. Actually it's a very common name in the Haute Savioe. This Bastard was immediately keen to talk about cycling. Merci. In fact, you might be surprised to hear that as I was splayed across most of the back of his smelly Peugeot the last thing I wanted to talk about was cycling. Especially when he found out that I had been planning to ride the Megeve/Mont Blanc race in June; turns out Bastard is in fact Monsieur le President du Club de Cyclisme de Grand Bornand. Couldn't make it up, could you. Landlord called Magnifique, taxi driver called Bastard. Ridiculous.
It turns out that Bastard views the Col des Aravis as little more than a Sunday afternoon jaunt. Thankfully he conceded that the Col de la Croix Fry is a little harder, at least between Manigod and the top. Well, thanks for that, Lance. Bastard in fact running the Paris marathon this weekend. Hope its hot. Maybe he could get the Charming Gourmand to join his club. Woulnd't do him any harm, let me tell you.
Oh, here's the Chief Nurse with a cup of tea and a chocolate brownie. Must fly. Criox Fry will have to wait for another year. Shame. Accountant must be gutted.
Fast forward to the last day of the holiday and we had last seen our hero chez le gourmand charmant, if that makes sense. By the time the Matriarch and Bob the Punch came back on the scene, the morphine was well and truly working its magic and all seemed fine. At least I wasn't being carted off to Annecy to go under the knife of Monsieur Le Churgien Orthopeadic; the Matriarch thought that might be wise, but if English hospitals smell I was not keen to discover what French ones were like. Much rather get home; at least you know where you are with the Superbug. So wheeled back into ambulance for trip to Chalet. Ambulance crew had changed; whimps.
Funny thing, pain. One man's amputation is another's paper cut; its entirely subjective, needless to say. I'm not sure I can remember the last time I was in pain, save for when the Chief Nurse bit me 20 seconds before arrival of number 2 daughter. But who was I to complain? And having seen that (and felt some of it) just a few months ago still didn't feel I could moan too much about a little broken bone (or even a big one; have you ever felt your tibia? It's hollow, you know). Anyway, did it hurt? I have thought about this alot, fully aware that in the 25 years since the Chapple assault I have not been embued with great fortitude. But when you think of pain, what do you imagine? A really sharp stinging pain, like slamming your finger in the car door? Or an all enveloping throb? Haven't had one of those for a while. The point is, whilst sitting on the mountain, knowing I had broken the leg, did it hurt? No. The worst bit was knowing that it was going to. Is it all in the mind?
But did it later? Well, the boot coming off was what I was really worried about, but, you know what, it was ok. I mean, I felt it and I probably howled, but that was more in expectation and fear, thruth be told. And as soon as it got in plaster it started to abate and was not as bad as I thought it was going to be. Maybe that's the answer...it's all in the expectation. Or the morphine.
My clients are often asked to describe their pain on a scale, where 10 is the worst pain you can imagine and zero is no pain. So I thought about that as things progressed. Its amazing how many say the pain they felt was initially a 10/10. Speaking from recent experience I have to say I find that hard to believe. Now, the Chief Nurse looked like she was at a 10 out of 10 in late November when daughter no 2 arrived; let me tell you, a bust leg can never even get close to that. I mean it never occurred to me to actually bite the charming gourmand; probably would have tasted quite nice, though.
But it was definitely worse the day after the fall. By the time I got out of the chalet and into Matriarch and Punch's flat, it was certainly sore. In fact, I was sore all over; massive bruise on elbow, whiplash, cuts to face and, oh yes, broken leg. No one to sue. Bollocks. And the pain; a sort of dull thudding ache. Like a massive toothache, but from the knee to my toes. But where was it on that scale? I reckon the only way to answer is to say, "how much more could I have taken?". Having already established that I am a bit of a whimp, you may be surprised to hear that the answer is "quite alot". Maybe it's easy with the benefit of hindsight, but I was nowhere near a 10; maybe a 5? I mean, the worst pain imaginable? I would hope I could cope with a lot more, frankly. Not that I am willing to try. And it suddenly occurs to me that I maybe should keep my powder dry considering I go under the knife tomorrow. Might have to revist my new found bravado in a few days...
But it does start me thinking about my clients. Never far from my mind anyway. You see, it really is all in the mind. These things are only as bad as you want them to be. Most of the people who go to pieces in the face of a seemingly innocuous injury or incident aren't making it up in the sense that they are deliberately making out that things are worse than they are, though of course there are plenty that do. Maybe an injury (especially one caused by someone else) is just the focus for a whole host of unrelated concerns. Would my leg be any more painful if it had been someone else's fault? I like to think not, but to some it might well be. Suddenly everything that is wrong with my life is not my fault. Hooray! I can blame someone else.
Note to self. Don't tell Chief Nurse I only ever got to a 5/10.
So, hunkered down in flat for a few days, feeling generally sorry for myself. Next step, getting home. Not much to tell you about that, really. Flew from Grenoble, wheelchair both ends. Taxi to Grenoble driven by Monsieur Bastard. Really. Actually it's a very common name in the Haute Savioe. This Bastard was immediately keen to talk about cycling. Merci. In fact, you might be surprised to hear that as I was splayed across most of the back of his smelly Peugeot the last thing I wanted to talk about was cycling. Especially when he found out that I had been planning to ride the Megeve/Mont Blanc race in June; turns out Bastard is in fact Monsieur le President du Club de Cyclisme de Grand Bornand. Couldn't make it up, could you. Landlord called Magnifique, taxi driver called Bastard. Ridiculous.
It turns out that Bastard views the Col des Aravis as little more than a Sunday afternoon jaunt. Thankfully he conceded that the Col de la Croix Fry is a little harder, at least between Manigod and the top. Well, thanks for that, Lance. Bastard in fact running the Paris marathon this weekend. Hope its hot. Maybe he could get the Charming Gourmand to join his club. Woulnd't do him any harm, let me tell you.
Oh, here's the Chief Nurse with a cup of tea and a chocolate brownie. Must fly. Criox Fry will have to wait for another year. Shame. Accountant must be gutted.
Sunday, 15 April 2007
All in a stew...
Day off yesterday.
It's surprising how tiring lying in bed can be. Just told chief nurse (and wife) how tired I get in the afternoons, to which she replied (slightly tersely after another sleepless night), "No change there, then". Anyway, had lots to do. Grand National and Man Utd in semi final of the Cup, busy day. Kiwi's giving South Africa a good pasting in the Caribbean, which is always satisfying. They really are a miserable bunch, the jarpies. It's as if they really can't understand how anyone can be better than them at anything. Better be careful, don't want to upset too many people when the blog goes worldwide.
Anyway, Sunday now, the day of rest. Just like any other, then. Enforced rest is strangely easy, once you get used to it. I mean, when was the last time I just stayed in bed on a Sunday morning? The truth is that even if I tried to, it wouldn't be as easy as you might think. Suppose chief nurse said, "Darling, I'll do everything today, you stay in bed, watch the cricket and footie, read a book, tap away at your blog, sleep, whatever. I'll look after the kids and bring you anything you want; you don't even have to get out of bed for a wee (more of which later). Just shout if you need anything". What would I do? Well, after running straight to newsagent to buy a lottery ticket, I would readily crawl back into bed. But then what? Probably would fidget around feeling guilty about all the things I should be doing and after about an hour come down stairs and my chance would have gone.
But with a broken leg it's different. I mean, I really can't move. Honest. After 9 days have just worked out how to get out of bed alone and make it to the bathroom, but can't really do anything once I get there, which makes the effort a bit pointless. On the day I flew home cousin Tim agreed to stay the night and I called him on way back from airport. "Brilliant" said the accountant, "I'm going out for beers with Longers and we wondered if you wanted to come". Prat. What did he think I'd done? Sprained my ankle? I could tell he was going to struggle to match the standard of care to which I had become accustomed. In mean, Bob the Punch had excelled himself, even cooked smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for his little boy. The accountant was going to need a little help. To be fair, he did heat up a beef stew and pour me a beer.
Talking of beef stew, therein lies a story. Would you like to hear it? It's bloody ridiculous, let me tell you. Makes a slip off the edge of a blue run look like a stroll in the park.
Arrived in France on 30 March, a Friday and little sister's birthday. That always puts the rest of us on high alert...a big day, even though she was glamming it up in Miami. Was she having a good time? Had we done enough to shower her with love and affection? Everyone a little on edge, if truth be known, until we heard from her. Phew, good day had and matriach relaxed...a little. Long drive throught France, 4 seasons in one day, rain, snow, sun and whatever the fourth is. Matriach made picnic without pork pie...whatever next? Luckily had brought bread from Rye to land of the baguette, so not completelty disorientated on arrival in mountains.
Anyway, your hero spent most of the drive wondering how to stock fridge in Chalet. Chief nurse (then only Chief Nanny, before recent promotion) suggetsed a big pot of stew. Welcome the Allen's on saturday night, last until Sunday, easy, delicious...hmmmm. Not a bad idea. Hero and Chief Nurse rush down to market Saturday morning. Let the cheese and meat fest begin, slash and burn all fruit and veg. Hero charged with stew, so buys huge, huge bit of beef from the philandering butcher (bastard, left Carole all alone with those boys) and all other goodies; mushrooms, carrots, peppers, the lot.
Rush off to flat and pick up kids, head to chalet. Much excitement, kids desperate to ski, hero relents, so needs to take them to ski shop to pick up skis. Matriarch had found website so skis and boots booked on line, whatever next? Rush in with bambinos and pick up gear. Number 1 daughter needs gloves; quick, choose some, yes they'll do, here's credit card, leave that alone Herbie, come here Lucy, try those on, I said leave that alone Herbie, do they fit, are they the right colour, well that's all they have left, now! Herbie, happy, good, yes please, put in pin number, shove wallet in pocket, escape. Rush across road carrying No 1 daughter (no shoes on) and bag with 2 x skis and boots, shove gear in boot and plug kids in back.
Back to chalet to don battle dress for the green run. Kids suited and booted, ready to go. Need wallet to pay for ski pass. No wallet. Anywhere. Bollocks. Back to shop. No sign. Empty car. No sign. Bollocks, bollocks. Back to shop, no sign. Bollocks. Gone. Deep breaths, kids mewing; desperate for a ski. Bollocks, its gone. Oh well, borrow 50 euros from Chief Nurse and head off. Bollocks.
Anyway, spirits lifted dramatically by quick ski with the progeny. They are brilliant, of course! Ducks to water, eagles to soaring, polar bears to ice, Giggs to wings, hero to law; natural matches. Arrive back at the chalet much enthused, to be greeted by Matriach waving wallet! Is there nothing she cannot do? Had been handed in at the tourist info and Matriarch had gone and retrieved; I can even forgive the lack of pork pie on the autoroute. £150 taken out of wallet. Bollocks. Oh well, hadn't cancelled cards, caluclated risk, good result and wallet (present from Chief Nurse) in tact. Slightly disturbed at thought of cheese eating surrender monkey riffling through my stuff...hope he chokes on his genepi/reblochon/gherkin, but that he survives, because he did hand it in...eventually.
Kids hungry after ski, Daddy. Chief nurse upstairs being Chief nanny, so hero swings into action. At this point does hero (a) just cook kids tea and sit down and interract with them whilst they eat or (b) cook tea and tell them to eat quietly whilst he prepares beef stew for 34? Why kill one bird at a time? So, pasta cooked and slopped in front of progeny. Lump of beef hacked up with blunt knife and everything ready for the pot. Ah, the pot...
The Chalet is owned by a Monseiur Magnifique, I kid you not. He doubles as the driver of the local ski bus and also ownes the chalet next door. Perfect location, especially for easy ambulance access, as already noted, although I wish I had known that then. What a life, sorted, guaranteed repeat business whilst he just potters up and down the hill, collecting his rent every Tuesday. Magnifique? Too bloody right.
Anyway, hero rifles the drawers to see what to cook the stew in. It's going to have to be big...oh yes, perfect, look at that lovely big pressure cooker. Wonderful. Stew loaded, kids given petit suisse and a banana. God, I'm good. Never used one of these before, how hard can it be? Just shove the ingredients in (almost to the top), lock on the top and sit on the hob. No worries. Now, what next?
Need bread. Perfect; kids fed, stew in pot and bread brought. Chief Nurse still on first boob with no 2 daughter; hero so far in the lead, might even get a ski tomorrow. Got back with the bread and as I entered the kitchen heard funny rumbling noise from stove...hmmmm. Pressure cooker shaking and making very grave noises. Heat off, now. Oh well, all I need to do is let the pressure out, can't be that hard. I mean, Delia Smith uses one of these. So "Let's be havin' yer" I shout at the stew and press the button to release the steam. Except it doesn't release just the steam. It releases copious quantities of gravy, all over the wall behind the hob. Bloody hell, these things are dangerous, hero thinks. Like all good pi lawyers, antennae immediately alert to any danger. Do not do anything stupid...
...like try and take the top off the pot. Prat. Daughter number 1 sitting at the table behind when hero does, in fact, decide now is the time to take the top off the pressure cooker. Krakatoa, Vesuvius, Chinaillon. Bollocks. Massive bang and whole chalet showered with beef stew. Seriously. Hit hero right square in the face. Bit of steak hit my right eyebrow. Black eye and cut. Carrot impacts against left temple, burn. Hair covered with gravy. Mushroom...up the nose. I kid you not. Hero has a mushroom burn on the inside of left nostril. Spent next 3 days sneezing fungus.
Poor daughter no 1 shrieks as hero recoils clucthing face and covered in gruel. Stew dripping from ceiling. Chief Nurse rushes in. Bollocks, won't get that ski now. "Are you burned?"; hmmmm. Hero peels t-shirt off to reveal nasty burn to right nipple and shoulder; molten celery, or is it onion? Lucy screams; "Daddy, you're side is bleeding!". Oh no, this is bad. Look down, not knowing what to expect. "Don't worry, Bear. It's ok, that's only a red pepper", which I scrape off timidly. Chief Nurse's advice? "Quick, go and jump in the snow". Thanks.
Anyway, that is true. Can't sleep that night. It took 1 and a half hours to clear up and I swear they will be finding bits of stew in that flat for generations. Couldn't get the sight of the erupting volcano out of my mind that night. Flashbacks. Oh no, Post Traumatic Stew Disorder. Plat du Jour at the local restaurant the following day? Yup, you guessed it.
So, when the charming gourmand asked me if I had done "all zat" to my face in the fall, I meekly said "Oui". Anyway, what is 'pressure cooker' in French?
All this turns me to thinking about the pressures of lfe, not just cookers. I still remember Stuart Kerr in the Pear Tree in Edinburgh in November 1988. "Chris Stephenson? Yeah, I know him. Tall bloke, tries too hard?". Plus ca change. There's a message in there somewhere...
A demain...
It's surprising how tiring lying in bed can be. Just told chief nurse (and wife) how tired I get in the afternoons, to which she replied (slightly tersely after another sleepless night), "No change there, then". Anyway, had lots to do. Grand National and Man Utd in semi final of the Cup, busy day. Kiwi's giving South Africa a good pasting in the Caribbean, which is always satisfying. They really are a miserable bunch, the jarpies. It's as if they really can't understand how anyone can be better than them at anything. Better be careful, don't want to upset too many people when the blog goes worldwide.
Anyway, Sunday now, the day of rest. Just like any other, then. Enforced rest is strangely easy, once you get used to it. I mean, when was the last time I just stayed in bed on a Sunday morning? The truth is that even if I tried to, it wouldn't be as easy as you might think. Suppose chief nurse said, "Darling, I'll do everything today, you stay in bed, watch the cricket and footie, read a book, tap away at your blog, sleep, whatever. I'll look after the kids and bring you anything you want; you don't even have to get out of bed for a wee (more of which later). Just shout if you need anything". What would I do? Well, after running straight to newsagent to buy a lottery ticket, I would readily crawl back into bed. But then what? Probably would fidget around feeling guilty about all the things I should be doing and after about an hour come down stairs and my chance would have gone.
But with a broken leg it's different. I mean, I really can't move. Honest. After 9 days have just worked out how to get out of bed alone and make it to the bathroom, but can't really do anything once I get there, which makes the effort a bit pointless. On the day I flew home cousin Tim agreed to stay the night and I called him on way back from airport. "Brilliant" said the accountant, "I'm going out for beers with Longers and we wondered if you wanted to come". Prat. What did he think I'd done? Sprained my ankle? I could tell he was going to struggle to match the standard of care to which I had become accustomed. In mean, Bob the Punch had excelled himself, even cooked smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for his little boy. The accountant was going to need a little help. To be fair, he did heat up a beef stew and pour me a beer.
Talking of beef stew, therein lies a story. Would you like to hear it? It's bloody ridiculous, let me tell you. Makes a slip off the edge of a blue run look like a stroll in the park.
Arrived in France on 30 March, a Friday and little sister's birthday. That always puts the rest of us on high alert...a big day, even though she was glamming it up in Miami. Was she having a good time? Had we done enough to shower her with love and affection? Everyone a little on edge, if truth be known, until we heard from her. Phew, good day had and matriach relaxed...a little. Long drive throught France, 4 seasons in one day, rain, snow, sun and whatever the fourth is. Matriach made picnic without pork pie...whatever next? Luckily had brought bread from Rye to land of the baguette, so not completelty disorientated on arrival in mountains.
Anyway, your hero spent most of the drive wondering how to stock fridge in Chalet. Chief nurse (then only Chief Nanny, before recent promotion) suggetsed a big pot of stew. Welcome the Allen's on saturday night, last until Sunday, easy, delicious...hmmmm. Not a bad idea. Hero and Chief Nurse rush down to market Saturday morning. Let the cheese and meat fest begin, slash and burn all fruit and veg. Hero charged with stew, so buys huge, huge bit of beef from the philandering butcher (bastard, left Carole all alone with those boys) and all other goodies; mushrooms, carrots, peppers, the lot.
Rush off to flat and pick up kids, head to chalet. Much excitement, kids desperate to ski, hero relents, so needs to take them to ski shop to pick up skis. Matriarch had found website so skis and boots booked on line, whatever next? Rush in with bambinos and pick up gear. Number 1 daughter needs gloves; quick, choose some, yes they'll do, here's credit card, leave that alone Herbie, come here Lucy, try those on, I said leave that alone Herbie, do they fit, are they the right colour, well that's all they have left, now! Herbie, happy, good, yes please, put in pin number, shove wallet in pocket, escape. Rush across road carrying No 1 daughter (no shoes on) and bag with 2 x skis and boots, shove gear in boot and plug kids in back.
Back to chalet to don battle dress for the green run. Kids suited and booted, ready to go. Need wallet to pay for ski pass. No wallet. Anywhere. Bollocks. Back to shop. No sign. Empty car. No sign. Bollocks, bollocks. Back to shop, no sign. Bollocks. Gone. Deep breaths, kids mewing; desperate for a ski. Bollocks, its gone. Oh well, borrow 50 euros from Chief Nurse and head off. Bollocks.
Anyway, spirits lifted dramatically by quick ski with the progeny. They are brilliant, of course! Ducks to water, eagles to soaring, polar bears to ice, Giggs to wings, hero to law; natural matches. Arrive back at the chalet much enthused, to be greeted by Matriach waving wallet! Is there nothing she cannot do? Had been handed in at the tourist info and Matriarch had gone and retrieved; I can even forgive the lack of pork pie on the autoroute. £150 taken out of wallet. Bollocks. Oh well, hadn't cancelled cards, caluclated risk, good result and wallet (present from Chief Nurse) in tact. Slightly disturbed at thought of cheese eating surrender monkey riffling through my stuff...hope he chokes on his genepi/reblochon/gherkin, but that he survives, because he did hand it in...eventually.
Kids hungry after ski, Daddy. Chief nurse upstairs being Chief nanny, so hero swings into action. At this point does hero (a) just cook kids tea and sit down and interract with them whilst they eat or (b) cook tea and tell them to eat quietly whilst he prepares beef stew for 34? Why kill one bird at a time? So, pasta cooked and slopped in front of progeny. Lump of beef hacked up with blunt knife and everything ready for the pot. Ah, the pot...
The Chalet is owned by a Monseiur Magnifique, I kid you not. He doubles as the driver of the local ski bus and also ownes the chalet next door. Perfect location, especially for easy ambulance access, as already noted, although I wish I had known that then. What a life, sorted, guaranteed repeat business whilst he just potters up and down the hill, collecting his rent every Tuesday. Magnifique? Too bloody right.
Anyway, hero rifles the drawers to see what to cook the stew in. It's going to have to be big...oh yes, perfect, look at that lovely big pressure cooker. Wonderful. Stew loaded, kids given petit suisse and a banana. God, I'm good. Never used one of these before, how hard can it be? Just shove the ingredients in (almost to the top), lock on the top and sit on the hob. No worries. Now, what next?
Need bread. Perfect; kids fed, stew in pot and bread brought. Chief Nurse still on first boob with no 2 daughter; hero so far in the lead, might even get a ski tomorrow. Got back with the bread and as I entered the kitchen heard funny rumbling noise from stove...hmmmm. Pressure cooker shaking and making very grave noises. Heat off, now. Oh well, all I need to do is let the pressure out, can't be that hard. I mean, Delia Smith uses one of these. So "Let's be havin' yer" I shout at the stew and press the button to release the steam. Except it doesn't release just the steam. It releases copious quantities of gravy, all over the wall behind the hob. Bloody hell, these things are dangerous, hero thinks. Like all good pi lawyers, antennae immediately alert to any danger. Do not do anything stupid...
...like try and take the top off the pot. Prat. Daughter number 1 sitting at the table behind when hero does, in fact, decide now is the time to take the top off the pressure cooker. Krakatoa, Vesuvius, Chinaillon. Bollocks. Massive bang and whole chalet showered with beef stew. Seriously. Hit hero right square in the face. Bit of steak hit my right eyebrow. Black eye and cut. Carrot impacts against left temple, burn. Hair covered with gravy. Mushroom...up the nose. I kid you not. Hero has a mushroom burn on the inside of left nostril. Spent next 3 days sneezing fungus.
Poor daughter no 1 shrieks as hero recoils clucthing face and covered in gruel. Stew dripping from ceiling. Chief Nurse rushes in. Bollocks, won't get that ski now. "Are you burned?"; hmmmm. Hero peels t-shirt off to reveal nasty burn to right nipple and shoulder; molten celery, or is it onion? Lucy screams; "Daddy, you're side is bleeding!". Oh no, this is bad. Look down, not knowing what to expect. "Don't worry, Bear. It's ok, that's only a red pepper", which I scrape off timidly. Chief Nurse's advice? "Quick, go and jump in the snow". Thanks.
Anyway, that is true. Can't sleep that night. It took 1 and a half hours to clear up and I swear they will be finding bits of stew in that flat for generations. Couldn't get the sight of the erupting volcano out of my mind that night. Flashbacks. Oh no, Post Traumatic Stew Disorder. Plat du Jour at the local restaurant the following day? Yup, you guessed it.
So, when the charming gourmand asked me if I had done "all zat" to my face in the fall, I meekly said "Oui". Anyway, what is 'pressure cooker' in French?
All this turns me to thinking about the pressures of lfe, not just cookers. I still remember Stuart Kerr in the Pear Tree in Edinburgh in November 1988. "Chris Stephenson? Yeah, I know him. Tall bloke, tries too hard?". Plus ca change. There's a message in there somewhere...
A demain...
Friday, 13 April 2007
Taking a dive
So, boot off.
And still concsious. Must be braver than I thought. There had been some howling, though. I can't deny it. Mum and Dad outside squirming at the thought of what the charming gourmand was doing to their (long since) little boy. Mum so traumatised that she was last seen running headlong for the nearest creperie for a choc fest. Bob 'the Punch' standing steadfast, though, which is encouraging, because I have to say that my new found fortitude in the face of pain and gore did not obviously course from his stock. No offence, but we are not the bravest, us Stevos.
But he was a mean boxer in his day. Bob 'the Punch' that is, not the charming gourmand. Picked up the nickname as a result of a formidable right hook in his school days. Used to fell Mick 'the Dive' Ross for fun and was generally thought of as the terror of the south coast, or at least the little bit of it between Pevensey and Beachy Head, otherwise known as Eastbourne. Hard place in those days. Reigned supreme for about 4 years until an exchange student from New York arrived in the summer of '57; can't remember his name, something Soprano. It was a hot one (the summer) and the 2 had been eyeing eachother all through a torrid June; I suppose it was inevitable someone would make the fight. They prowled up an down the pier, circled the Martello Tower and eventually came to blows one balmy evening in the College Gym, otherwise known as Willingdon Square Garden.
When I say 'came to blows' I am afraid that is a bit of an exaggeration. In fact they came to a 'blow'. Soprano (as we shall call him) sent out a tentative jab, well that's what he called it afterwards when speaking to the Eastbourne Gazette. I am afraid it was good enough to demolish the hitherto unblemished record of the local boy. In freeze frame he hit the floor and the fight was over. Just like that.
They said it was a fix. Said the local mob were involved. Anyway, Bob the punch married the daughter of one of the big local families, so who knows, there might be some truth in it. Anyway, some years later he found himself standing, worried, outside a French clinic whilst he son and heir was tortutred by some over fed, cheese eating...steady on, he was charming and I hope he is enjoying his holiday.
Back inside, x rays done and our hero uses all his professional expertise to assess the situation. After 12 years of poring over medical reports and evaluating injury I was able to look at the pictures and confidently assert "C'est casse". Charming gourmand clearly impressed, and not just with my mastery of his language. "Bien sur" he relplies which roughly translates as "No shit, Sherlock". He then sets the leg in above knee cast, to accompanying whimpers. Finally he looks at my face, quizzically.
"Did you do all zat in ze fall?" he asks, clearly impressed. He looks at the array of grazes and what appear to be burns all over my face. "Yes", I murmur. I am too ashamed to tell him the truth, to tell him how I really smashed up my face. That is another story and one I cannot quite bring myself to tell right now. Suffice to say that tomorrow's installment may well a little surreal...
Anyway, another day passes and I continue to muse on the plight of others, particulartly in the light of Alex's comment. It strikes me that one man's broken leg is another man's curtailed lunch and that my misfortune no more than another day in the life of a local doctor in a small skiing village high (in fact low) in the French Alps. Quel fromage!
And still concsious. Must be braver than I thought. There had been some howling, though. I can't deny it. Mum and Dad outside squirming at the thought of what the charming gourmand was doing to their (long since) little boy. Mum so traumatised that she was last seen running headlong for the nearest creperie for a choc fest. Bob 'the Punch' standing steadfast, though, which is encouraging, because I have to say that my new found fortitude in the face of pain and gore did not obviously course from his stock. No offence, but we are not the bravest, us Stevos.
But he was a mean boxer in his day. Bob 'the Punch' that is, not the charming gourmand. Picked up the nickname as a result of a formidable right hook in his school days. Used to fell Mick 'the Dive' Ross for fun and was generally thought of as the terror of the south coast, or at least the little bit of it between Pevensey and Beachy Head, otherwise known as Eastbourne. Hard place in those days. Reigned supreme for about 4 years until an exchange student from New York arrived in the summer of '57; can't remember his name, something Soprano. It was a hot one (the summer) and the 2 had been eyeing eachother all through a torrid June; I suppose it was inevitable someone would make the fight. They prowled up an down the pier, circled the Martello Tower and eventually came to blows one balmy evening in the College Gym, otherwise known as Willingdon Square Garden.
When I say 'came to blows' I am afraid that is a bit of an exaggeration. In fact they came to a 'blow'. Soprano (as we shall call him) sent out a tentative jab, well that's what he called it afterwards when speaking to the Eastbourne Gazette. I am afraid it was good enough to demolish the hitherto unblemished record of the local boy. In freeze frame he hit the floor and the fight was over. Just like that.
They said it was a fix. Said the local mob were involved. Anyway, Bob the punch married the daughter of one of the big local families, so who knows, there might be some truth in it. Anyway, some years later he found himself standing, worried, outside a French clinic whilst he son and heir was tortutred by some over fed, cheese eating...steady on, he was charming and I hope he is enjoying his holiday.
Back inside, x rays done and our hero uses all his professional expertise to assess the situation. After 12 years of poring over medical reports and evaluating injury I was able to look at the pictures and confidently assert "C'est casse". Charming gourmand clearly impressed, and not just with my mastery of his language. "Bien sur" he relplies which roughly translates as "No shit, Sherlock". He then sets the leg in above knee cast, to accompanying whimpers. Finally he looks at my face, quizzically.
"Did you do all zat in ze fall?" he asks, clearly impressed. He looks at the array of grazes and what appear to be burns all over my face. "Yes", I murmur. I am too ashamed to tell him the truth, to tell him how I really smashed up my face. That is another story and one I cannot quite bring myself to tell right now. Suffice to say that tomorrow's installment may well a little surreal...
Anyway, another day passes and I continue to muse on the plight of others, particulartly in the light of Alex's comment. It strikes me that one man's broken leg is another man's curtailed lunch and that my misfortune no more than another day in the life of a local doctor in a small skiing village high (in fact low) in the French Alps. Quel fromage!
Thursday, 12 April 2007
The aftermath...
How dramatic.
Right, on we go. Just got back from the surgeon, but can't say what happened. That would be like ruining the end of a book. Did that once, to a bloke at school called Robert Van der Meulen (honest). Remember that really long family saga, Kane and Abel, by the great Jeffrey Archer? Not in his league; not yet, anyway, but out of small acorns...Well, it goes on for about 1000 pages and you only find out what the answer is on page 998. He was on page 996 and I told him what had happened. Couldn't actually believe I had done it. Maybe I deserved to break my leg?
Talking of which, where had I got to? Waited for blood wagon, resisted a drink. Blood wagon arrived and things get surreal. The rugged looking bloke on the skidoo and brandishing a walkie talkie tells me he has just seen my mother at the bottom of the piste. I tell him he must be mistaken, and that he had in fact seen my wife. He looked appalled, because he had in fact seen my mother. Tom just shrugged his shoulders. So rugged man loads cradle snatched tall bloke into little blood wagon and off the circus goes.
Those things are bloody noisy and, let me tell you, not made for blokes my size. By this stage my upper lip was not as firm as it should have been, and the pain hadn't even started. It was still the mere thought of getting that boot off. I wince at a blister in a new pair of M&S shoes, so what this was going to be like I had no idea. Anyway, I was distracted by assessing Tom's technique down the steep blue we were descending. Bloody good, I must say. Hands forward, knees bent like a tiger ready to leap. Easy now.
Ambulance waiting outside chalet. I knew we had taken this one for a reason. "Easy access for emergency services" should be added to the brochure. The look on the 2 ambulancemen's faces when they pulled back the blanket to reveal me in (almost) all my glory was perfect. "Mon Dieu! Il est massif!" sighed the little one. They earned their pig products and reblochon that day, let me tell you. Lugged into ambulance and driven down to the clinic. Any sign of the doctor? Not a bit of it. It was lunchtime, and by the look of Dr Chenais when he eventually did turn up, that is not a time that he often spends at work. No sandwiches at the desk for him. Anyway, charming gourmand plucked the boot off with the help of the exhausted ambulancemen. Mark Chapple, pah! I am now officially able to deal with pain. Didn't actaully have much choice and in fact was a whimpering wreck.
My first stirring of symoathy for clients...ever. A strange and slightly disturbing feeling, more of which later...
Right, on we go. Just got back from the surgeon, but can't say what happened. That would be like ruining the end of a book. Did that once, to a bloke at school called Robert Van der Meulen (honest). Remember that really long family saga, Kane and Abel, by the great Jeffrey Archer? Not in his league; not yet, anyway, but out of small acorns...Well, it goes on for about 1000 pages and you only find out what the answer is on page 998. He was on page 996 and I told him what had happened. Couldn't actually believe I had done it. Maybe I deserved to break my leg?
Talking of which, where had I got to? Waited for blood wagon, resisted a drink. Blood wagon arrived and things get surreal. The rugged looking bloke on the skidoo and brandishing a walkie talkie tells me he has just seen my mother at the bottom of the piste. I tell him he must be mistaken, and that he had in fact seen my wife. He looked appalled, because he had in fact seen my mother. Tom just shrugged his shoulders. So rugged man loads cradle snatched tall bloke into little blood wagon and off the circus goes.
Those things are bloody noisy and, let me tell you, not made for blokes my size. By this stage my upper lip was not as firm as it should have been, and the pain hadn't even started. It was still the mere thought of getting that boot off. I wince at a blister in a new pair of M&S shoes, so what this was going to be like I had no idea. Anyway, I was distracted by assessing Tom's technique down the steep blue we were descending. Bloody good, I must say. Hands forward, knees bent like a tiger ready to leap. Easy now.
Ambulance waiting outside chalet. I knew we had taken this one for a reason. "Easy access for emergency services" should be added to the brochure. The look on the 2 ambulancemen's faces when they pulled back the blanket to reveal me in (almost) all my glory was perfect. "Mon Dieu! Il est massif!" sighed the little one. They earned their pig products and reblochon that day, let me tell you. Lugged into ambulance and driven down to the clinic. Any sign of the doctor? Not a bit of it. It was lunchtime, and by the look of Dr Chenais when he eventually did turn up, that is not a time that he often spends at work. No sandwiches at the desk for him. Anyway, charming gourmand plucked the boot off with the help of the exhausted ambulancemen. Mark Chapple, pah! I am now officially able to deal with pain. Didn't actaully have much choice and in fact was a whimpering wreck.
My first stirring of symoathy for clients...ever. A strange and slightly disturbing feeling, more of which later...
How it all began...
Right, don't know what happened there, thought I was about to set sail on my blog voyage, but will obviously have to start again. How exciting. As I have already said once, here goes...
First, the fall. Really that's the least exciting bit for me, but maybe not for you so I will recount a few gory details. Skiing, of course. What started out as 'skiing over a small lip' has needless to say become 'flying off a massive cornice'; believe what you want. Anyway, on taking air (a little or a lot, depending on your point of view) was confronted with 2 ice boulders. Large ones, regardless of point of view. Almost missed first, but pinged left ski off, shin of left foot struck second a toute vitesse. Snapped my tibia. Those blue runs can be steeper than they look.
Tom told me where to go, but I didn't do what I was told. Luckily, because if I had I might now be dictacting the 'Broken Neck Diaries'. Note to self: never trust another lawyer. Anyway, he used his newly acquired Scott Miller blast turns (harder on a blue run than they look) to get to me and blood wagon summoned. New territory for me from now on. Knew I'd snapped a leg, but fracture still encased in boot, so no real pain. What was beginning to hurt was the mere thought of getting the wretched boot off. You see, I'm not very brave. Ever since Mark Chapple jumped on me from a great height (honest) in the Under 14 A's vs B's on Memorial Park in about 1984, I have not dealt with pain well. In fact, probably started long before then, but I'm not that self deprecating; and Chapple was BIG, and mean.
Tom was very helpful, once he'd told me what he really thought of me. Offered me beer and/or genepi; thanks, but no. As if it is not embarrasing enough breaking your leg on a blue run right in front of a terrace bar full of punters. I didn't think I could deal with the humiliation of then spilling a demi pression all over my North Face. So we sat. And sat. And sat. So much for being swept up within minutes of a fall; not a bit of it. Half a bleeding hour. I know that chair lift to the top of Maroly is slow, but that was ridiculous. I mean, I could have been really hurt, not just broken my leg.
Getting into this now, but have to get up and go to see the surgeon, which is really the end of the story (so far). Lots more to tell you, so back soon (I hope)...
First, the fall. Really that's the least exciting bit for me, but maybe not for you so I will recount a few gory details. Skiing, of course. What started out as 'skiing over a small lip' has needless to say become 'flying off a massive cornice'; believe what you want. Anyway, on taking air (a little or a lot, depending on your point of view) was confronted with 2 ice boulders. Large ones, regardless of point of view. Almost missed first, but pinged left ski off, shin of left foot struck second a toute vitesse. Snapped my tibia. Those blue runs can be steeper than they look.
Tom told me where to go, but I didn't do what I was told. Luckily, because if I had I might now be dictacting the 'Broken Neck Diaries'. Note to self: never trust another lawyer. Anyway, he used his newly acquired Scott Miller blast turns (harder on a blue run than they look) to get to me and blood wagon summoned. New territory for me from now on. Knew I'd snapped a leg, but fracture still encased in boot, so no real pain. What was beginning to hurt was the mere thought of getting the wretched boot off. You see, I'm not very brave. Ever since Mark Chapple jumped on me from a great height (honest) in the Under 14 A's vs B's on Memorial Park in about 1984, I have not dealt with pain well. In fact, probably started long before then, but I'm not that self deprecating; and Chapple was BIG, and mean.
Tom was very helpful, once he'd told me what he really thought of me. Offered me beer and/or genepi; thanks, but no. As if it is not embarrasing enough breaking your leg on a blue run right in front of a terrace bar full of punters. I didn't think I could deal with the humiliation of then spilling a demi pression all over my North Face. So we sat. And sat. And sat. So much for being swept up within minutes of a fall; not a bit of it. Half a bleeding hour. I know that chair lift to the top of Maroly is slow, but that was ridiculous. I mean, I could have been really hurt, not just broken my leg.
Getting into this now, but have to get up and go to see the surgeon, which is really the end of the story (so far). Lots more to tell you, so back soon (I hope)...
The story so far...
Just broken my leg. 6 days ago. Then read an article about a Japanese woman who has a blog about the bento lunch boxes she packs every day for her children; she makes these sweet little lunches for her 2 darlings and then takes a photo of them on her phone (eh?) and posts it on a web site. Cult status, apparently...
So, anyway, got me thinking. I thought it would be just hilarious for evryone to read about me and my broken leg. Cult status, suddenly an interview with the Guardian (will Dad ever speak to me again?), a book and film deal, breaking away from the shackles of work, a new dawn. Or, at least, something to keep my mind off the pain...of watching England struggle through what remains of their tattered World Cup cricket hopes. Here goes.
So, anyway, got me thinking. I thought it would be just hilarious for evryone to read about me and my broken leg. Cult status, suddenly an interview with the Guardian (will Dad ever speak to me again?), a book and film deal, breaking away from the shackles of work, a new dawn. Or, at least, something to keep my mind off the pain...of watching England struggle through what remains of their tattered World Cup cricket hopes. Here goes.
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