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...