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.