Hot Doctors Spotted: A big fat zero
Song for the day: Crowded House: Weather with you
Being incapacitated and back home transforms you instantly back into your 4 year-old self. Clinging onto Daddy in tears because it hurts. Having your shoes put on for you. Being brought your dinner on a tray in front of the TV with a bib because you can't lean forward enough not to streak gravy down your top. Oh the indignity.
I love my Dad. He was ill last year and this strange reversal of care roles leaves me a little ashamed. I don't think I took quite such good care of him. I was too busy having a mid-twenties crisis.
My 4-year-old incarnation of current self is quite stroppy and demanding and possibly getting too used to being brought stuff and having her socks put on for her. She also smokes far too much for an infant and drinks like an alcoholic soldier on leave from Afghanistan.
Luckily my Dad is a juvenile delinquent in the body of a 71 year old and thinks the cure for everything is either a well-iced Gin and Tonic, setting fire to things, or a bacon sandwich. He also drinks, without fail, a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice from his (much beloved) industrial juicer each morning. Having smoked about 70 fags a day for most of his adult life and survived a triple heart bypass whilst still putting away a bottle of vino every night, I have come to the conclusion that he has actually discovered the elixir of life. It's Orange Pressées. So don't say I never tell you anything useful.
He took me to see the surgeon yesterday and to have an ultra-sound scan to check for blood clots - where they put goo on your leg and roller it with this object that looks like an epilator. The dude freaked out slightly because he thought he'd found a clot in my thigh. Then decided it was the way I was sitting. Which added a little spice to the occasion. Anyhoo, Dad and I had to sit in a waiting room the size of a broom cupboard for about 2 hours, dying of boredom. There was a magazine in there which was so dull it made more more bored than if I had simply stared at the wall - which was that horrific pebbledash you only see in hospitals. In the end I got so excruciatingly bored I starting pacing up and down counting my steps like Papillon......
Me: 'One, two, three, four, five, six........ one, two, three, four, five, six'
Dad: ' I spy with my little eye, something beginning with 'c' '
Me: '.........four, five, six......a Cunt? '
Dad: 'Got it.... your turn'
By the time the nurse came to get me I was trying to balance one of my crutches on my forehead and Dad had mischievously removed one of the ceiling tiles with the other one.
With the best intention, no amount of Gin, tonic, burnt stuff, bacon or orange juice can relieve the acute boredom of sitting on your arse. Particularly after being so incredibly active for so long. The extent of my achievements today have been to move from the bed to the couch. This was actually a colossal accomplishment as I appear to be on the most almighty motherfucker of a codeine comedown. My brain feels like it's been pushed through a tea strainer.
I have attempted to amuse myself by sending rude pictures of various parts of my anatomy to SbH. I miss him far more than I should. It's most inconvenient.
They are cutting me open on Thursday to see what's floating around in the mangled detritus of my knee. And then I shall be in a plaster, but apparently able to walk - rather like a peg leg. So that sounds elegant.