Happy New Year

I'd be pushing the optimistic thing a little too far if I didn't admit that 2006 has hardly been vintage. We realised that William would be unlikely to make it into adulthood. I got run over. My flat was flooded. And I start 2007 with the knowledge that the 2nd Jan will herald a raft of bounced direct debits, and a round of further demands for cash, whilst those who owe me money will be taking their own sweet time about it. The joy of all of this, of course, is that it will take a peculiar series of disasters to make 2007 a worse year. A nuclear conflict, perhaps. A freak air crash over Tooting. An outbreak of the plague. So perhaps optimism isn't a bad idea after all.

Christmas has been all about the boy, although he now seems to be suffering from seasonal overload. He has gradually got the idea, and is now fully in command of all things festive, to the degree that he is throwing the Christmas tree baubles around in an expression of pure joy. Or is it vandalism? Father Christmas left him a little cold - he was rather surprised to see presents in his cot, and once he had unwrapped the Thomas DVD North Pole special edition, ignored the other parcels completely. However, he now seems to expect to find a 'Dadoot pwesent' - Thomas present - every morning, so Santa did make an impression. He also starred in the Christmas morning church play, not because his role - a shepherd - was particularly central, but because he brought a freshness and originality to the part that is rarely seen. I sincerely doubt that many other Nazarene shepherds chose to illuminate their roles by throwing stuffed sheep around and singing the 'coloured houses song' from Balamory. His performance had started with the line 'Bye-bye shepherd' and a casting aside of his tea towel headdress, so we could have guessed that we were in for something special. As he processed along the aisle waving the stuffed toy sheep and shouting "Daddy Sheep!", however, I did worry about my already low moral reputation amongst the congregation. Still, I have rarely been so entertained in church, and I'm sure it was better than whatever schmaltzy cartoon they were choosing to show on BBC1 at the time. William remains my hero.

My leg has remained steadfastly the same throughout the festive period. Having to use two crutches again has radically affected my ability to walk and drink at the same time, so doubtless my liver is in good shape this Christmas, at least. I waved goodbye to my physio, Mo, the other day, which was sad, as he has been both friendly and effective. He is 'rotating' apparently. This is something that physios do, and is probably possible because of the amount of stretching involved in their job. Before Mo, I couldn't even get out of bed without physically lifting my own leg manually, and now I am about as fit as I can be, given the limitations of a cast and not being allowed to fully weight bear. In fact, we decided that there was little point in any further sessions with his replacement until my next session with my consultant. He will be missed. And it is a little depressing, actually. Now my recovery is out of my hands again, apart from trying not to overstress my leg. Frustrating, but at least I know that I have been doing everything I can to get better, and I shall just have to wait until mid-January to see if I'm going to be progressing, or looking at another round of 'interventions'. I won't be posting up my next set of x-rays, though, as it will cost me another £25, and I suspect the differences will only be clear to the trained eye. I've struggled to see the difference between my last lot and the ones taken on day one...

Our overnight respite nurse Margaret gave us the great Christmas present last night of arriving early and babysitting all three children - technically against the rules - so that Sarah and I could go out for a meal. By lucky coincidence I had been paid a cash gig the night before at a pub in rural Wiltshire, so I didn't need to suffer the indignity of being unable to pay for the first time we've been out together since last winter. I had octopus for a starter too, so I must have been feeling particularly adventurous. Tonight, however, will be a quiet one. My old friend, colleague and now Eton housemaster Roland had offered for us all to go to his - a lot of free beds in a boarding house(!) - but without being able to drive and on a cold and wet night, it wasn't really a starter. Maybe we'll try another time, as I'm sure the girls would love to live out their Hogwarts/Malory Towers fantasies. And I'd like to get drunk with impunity. Until now, I've been seeing out 2006 by trying to keep a tired and emotional two-year-old, and taking out my frustrations on defenceless cyber animals, so as the evening progresses, we might at least be able to improve on that.

Still wrapped

These are pictures of the inside of my leg this morning. They go some way to explaining how the consultant was able to flex my calf in the middle – a somewhat disconcerting experience. He was a little more circumspect than my physio – describing my leg as ‘bowed’ rather than ‘deformed’. All those extra years of training I suppose. The radiographer was less discreet. “That’s a mess!” she cheerfully proclaimed, as she trotted in with another x-ray plate. All of which adds up to the fact that I shall not be enjoying an unwrapped leg this Christmas, and shall be nervously hoping that January brings some better news about the alarmingly bendy nature of my tibia. My long awaited bath still remains on hold too. So I hope nobody’s got me soap on a rope for Christmas.

On the plus side, I have been able to re-think my cast’s colour choice. Green seemed like a good idea at the time, but facing such a bilious colour on Boxing Day morning didn’t really appeal, so given the choice again, I opted for classic black. It will go with my little black dress.

Given that my preferred Christmas pressie – the ability to wear a pair of shoes – is not now going to come to pass, I decided to treat myself and buy a CD-ROM of all of my x-rays (£25 – probably a price aimed at the personal injury lawyers). In fact, if I hadn’t, I would never have seen the majority of them. The consultants seem to go out of their way to study x-rays in private, then practise their euphemisms as they seek to explain just how knackered you are. Was it a good idea for me to get copies of them? Is a little knowledge a dangerous thing? Probably, but after a few years as a teacher, I have proved myself well practised in the art of stretching a little knowledge a long way. And they are grimly fascinating. Especially the CT scans of the inside of my head. Scary.

So, now that I have been able to see my own grey matter, I feel properly equipped to continue my temporary renaissance as a teacher. Which is useful, as I’ve had to turn down a Magic Flute in January, and am looking increasingly shaky for the chorus in Butterfly this February. And that only involves humming.

So it’s back to hobbling around Croydon, trying to fit my Christmas shopping into a shoulder bag. And I’ve been told to cut down on the weight-bearing, so it’s small and light pressies for everybody this year. Which is handy, when the tax man’s on your case.

Christmas shopping

This is the Christmas present that I’d like to buy my physiotherapist. Surely the art of euphemism is something that is learnt at medical school? It is an art, however, that has passed him by. He is a good man, and a good physio. But when he saw me last, I’d rather he hadn’t said that it did look as if I would be left a little ‘deformed’. How he could have put it less bluntly? ‘Skewed’? ‘Off centre’? ‘A little less than parallel’?

Permanent deformity aside though, everything is going well on the leg front. I left one stick at home on a trip to the local shops yesterday, and walked there the day before, albeit with both crutches held two inches above the ground to act as rudimentary stabilisers. This pleases passers-by, who must feel that they are witnessing some miraculous event, as I cast aside my sticks and walk. I am also pleased to say that my gradual ability to use one hand and walk at the same time makes Christmas shopping a lot easier, as I can effectively carry my copy of Roget’s Thesaurus to the cash desk without having to pocket it and risk an awkward conversation with shop security. At least, I suppose, it would be an awkward conversation rich with synonyms.

However, my normal Christmas shopping habits have been rather wrecked by the whole leg situation. The frantic last minute Christmas Eve dash around Selfridges is not something I’d like to tackle at the moment, even though it is the best way to pick up such must-have items as the jelly bean pooing reindeer that I bought everybody a few years ago (I notice they’re everywhere these days). I did flirt with the idea of an internet shopping Crimbles, but this does require rather more forethought than I possess. If nobody is going to get their Christmas present until January anyway, you may as well do the shopping in the sales. So it’s going to be a few days hobbling around the delights of Croydon with a shoulder bag. So nobody is getting anything physically larger than a hardback book. Unless they are buying it themselves and passing me the bill, which is what Mum has resorted to.

Would it be corny to say that my best Christmas present could be geting back the use of my right leg? I have a consultant’s appointment on Tuesday, and am holding out a secret(ish) hope that he will give th go-ahead to the plaster room to get busy with the circular saw. It’s technically due to stay on for another week, but that would mean it coming off on Boxing Day, which is unlikely. It’s all down to the x-rays I suppose. I’ve had so many now that I could probably perch at one end of Oxford Street and make a fairly effective glowing Christmas decoration myself.

In the meantime, I must be getting better, as I have been busying myself with a little DIY. In sorting out William’s room, I have even got creative, and drawn a tree next to his giraffe for measuring his height. Which would be fine, apart from the fact that I had chosen that very afternoon to tell Wiliam off for scribbling on the walls. ‘Dwawing, wall!’ he gleefully commented as he viewed my efforts. We can expect toddler masterpieces on the walls for weeks.

He walks!

The proof! This is the kitchen in the Tonbridge English Department - a utilitarian temple to the god of caffeine. If you look carefully, next to the bin, my crutch is carefully propped up a few feet away from where I walked to take the photo. It's a little blurry. I was quite excited.

Fun and Games

I'm back at the computer in my classroom. I have time to pen this blog, as, oddly enough, my supply teaching duties don't include any input on the games front. In fact, even when I was teaching properly, with both legs, I managed to avoid this aspect of the job; principally, as anyone who has ever encountered my own particular brand of hand-eye co-ordination will testify, as I am not a natural games player. I was occasionally to be found prowling the Fives courts in my last job, but that really was a token presence, and I had no idea of the rules. There could well be an organic change in the rules of Eton Fives from those boys who knew the PDH version. After all, it was that sort of creativity that defined the game in the first place. I did take a couple of unimportant football matches at my first teaching job. I aroused the boys' anger by swapping the team members around at half time because the score was so uneven. And I didn't have a whistle, so had to rely on the expedient of clapping my hands together and shouting. It at least made them feel like they had a spectator. The only other time I ever had anything to do with the sportsfield was when I took a football team to an away match near Guildford. I spent the lengthy coach journey sat next to the bodyguard of the royal who was playing as one of my forwards. No doubt this man was excellent company, but his trained reticence was a little hard to get used to, and once we got there, he melted into the background - just another spectator. Except he was armed and could doubtless kill with a single blow. Not what you really want from a football supporter under normal circumstances.

All of which leaves me with a free afternoon. There is some marking to do. And a cup of tea to make. And some physio to do also. But I have discovered the joys of multi-tasking, and as the kettle is at the bottom of a flight of stairs, I can at least combine the last two priorities. In fact, the kitchen in the English department shall forever hold a great significance for me, because I had my Douglas Bader moment there two days ago. I walked some proper steps with no aid whatsoever. And it felt great. Oddly, it takes me a couple of steps to get going, and I need to flap my arms around quite a lot, just for effect, but it is certainly not the glorified hopping that I have achieved already. I am definitely walking again. After five months. And it brought a small tear to my eye. Quite genuinely. I have a photo that documents the occasion - in a way - but it will have to wait until I get back to the sofa and my laptop, as then I can download it. I have suggested a small plaque in the kitchen to commemorate my moment, but suspect it is of personal, rather than global significance. But I am still a happy man. And am going to have a cup of tea to celebrate!

Territory

The young pretender is making a claim for the sofa now. The trials of fatherhood...

Things sartorial

I bought a tracksuit today. I think that this is the first time in my life that I have been moved to do this, and there is a certain irony that it has happened at a time when I can’t walk, let alone lead a life of sporty athleticism. However, it was a necessary move, as the last time I pitched up to my physiotherapy session, it was in a rather smart charcoal grey two piece suit and tie. I think my physio was pleased to see that I was managing to start a working life again, but did register some disquiet about my sartorial choice being appropriate for any exercise that involved breaking into a sweat. And he wanted to see my muscles. Which certainly will put him in a lifetime minority of one. So I took myself to Primark this afternoon, as that way at least the shock of the purchase wouldn’t deliver the killer blow to my terminally sick bank balance. I also have to confess that, uniquely for me, I had to ask Sarah about what sort of tracksuit to buy, as I had absolutely no frame of reference whatsoever. I suspect that the last time I wore a tracksuit was at school, and I’ve spent some quality time ensuring that memories of school PE sessions have been effectively wiped.

Still, the suit and tie combo has done me some good, as I believe I was effectively propositioned at Redhill station yesterday. A very slinky lady had been glancing at me for some time before coming to sit next to me, and finding a pretext for chat. It was when she took off her gloves and made sure that I saw her naked ring finger that the penny started to drop, and it clattered quite audibly to the ground when she started talking about a friend of hers who had used a broken leg as a pulling tool. This had never struck me before as a possibility. Strutting my funky stuff on the dance floor hardly came naturally when I had the use of all of my limbs, but I certainly couldn’t imagine the crutches helping my moves at all. If, of course, I had chosen to follow the conversation to its seemingly natural conclusion, I could well imagine loosing the use of another limb as well. Somehow, I’m not sure I could sell a dose of infidelity to Sarah as a valid clinical choice. Neither, for the record, would I want to! However, there was no doubt that it was good for the ego. Even when I noticed just how thick the glasses were that she was wearing. After all, she was, she told me, an optician.

There has been no photo in this blog entry yet. Apologies for missing the opportunity to show a photo of me sporting my new athletic attire. That was an editorial decision. And apologies for not having taken a photo of the slinky optician. That was a legal decision. But there is a photo worth showing. William met the Crystal Palace football team today. It’s one of the few benefits of him being such a medical emergency. I’m not sure what he felt he got out of the experience, other than some signatures for his scrapbook, and the addition of the word ‘Footboryer’ to his ever expanding vocabulary. However, the last time he met a football team was at Chelsea, and at least he is now casting his loyalty on the right side of the Thames. So here he is meeting Crystal Palace. He put his football shirt on especially. He my be a Croydon boy, but this is not his usual wardrobe choice. I’m going to have to work on him meeting some cricketers soon. Then at least I’ll know who they are. After waking up to the closing stages of the second Ashes test this morning, my guess is that there will be plenty of cricketers looking for good publicity by February.

Advent

Sarah has put up the Christmas tree, because it is the beginning of December. I can no longer avoid the fact that the festive season is upon us, as it is has been displayed in glorious technicolour only six feet away from the sofa – my one-time refuge. I had avoided the impending goodwill until now, principally as it is difficult to admire decorations whilst your eyes are glued to the floor so as to avoid plonking a crutch foot on an empty crisp packet or a dog poo. It is now, however, looming with the inevitability of a Sunday morning hangover. I hope I managed to feign enough interest in whether the baubles were pink or blue. I’m not sure I pulled it off though.

Sarah’s daughters decided to put on a Christmas show for us this afternoon. They had, at least, managed to programme a time that didn’t clash with my few glorious moments enjoying a reunion with the sofa and remote control in order to watch Salisbury play Forest in the FA cup. (If you’re desperate enough, anything will do…) In fact, they put on a pretty slick performance. That the show ended in a fair amount of recrimination and tears only added to the overall sense of professionalism. However, my favourite moment was still William’s brief intervention, when he waded in, hurled the baby doll over his shoulder, and declared, ‘Bye bye Jesus!’ That’s my boy. He is fast becoming my hero.

Apologies for the bah and humbug. I am generally quite a fan of Christmas, but it is a time of year that always seems to provide a natural target for hopes and ambitions. I had hoped that I would be walking again by the New Year, if only so that I could practice the all-important drunken stagger, but it is now clearly an unlikely aim. In fact, it is looking increasingly shaky that I will be able to manage the Gubbay Madam Butterfly that begins in February, as I am still likely to be pretty crutch dependent. All very frustrating. I’m putting the miles in, but the pain in my leg is holding me up, and reminding me that Mother nature will have her say. My one crutch technique – crutch down, heel, wince, toe – I’m sure isn’t quite how it appears in the textbooks. On top of which, I made the mistake of asking my physiotherapist if I could see my last set of X-rays. My assumption was that an improving leg would look less like a scattered jigsaw puzzle, and at least resemble a set of bones in straight lines. How wrong I was. It still looks like snapped celery – it’s just that there are slightly more cloudy bits in-between. I now look forward to my consultant’s appointment in a couple of week’s time. He has a much better line in placatory bullshit. In fact, the last time I saw him, he basically admitted that this was his technique. It does for me.

Enough moaning though. On the positive side, I tried an escalator the other day. Getting on it was a bit of a quiz. Getting off was not, but I did spend the whole upward journey fretting about whether or not I was going to be able to make it. More worrying was the piece of logic that I had managed to conjure up, suggesting that it was sensible to have my first attempt on a short escalator. It took me until some hours afterwards to realise just how bizarre a piece of logic this was. Perhaps a bit of boozy festive celebration is the answer. I think I have a few flabby grey cells to purge.

Teaching

How about this – I’m blogging from work! Where did those heady days on the sofa go? Sick of the constant drip, drip of cash leaving my overdraft, I took up the offer of a temporary English teaching job at Tonbridge school. And it has been good for the soul. The commute is a little horrendous, but does allow me time to read the books I’m teaching – a useful pastime, though one that it took me a couple of years of teaching to realise did make life easier.

Commuting with a broken leg is an interesting experience. Now that I no longer look like an extra from an episode of ER, I do avoid the constant staring and annoying questioning. However, the flipside is that, although I still have a day-glo green cast, few people are prepared to go out of their way to accommodate my tottering travelling style. There is, in fact, a seemingly shared opinion that it is every man for himself at rush hour, and if I was foolish enough to try and travel at 7.30 am, I should be prepared to take the consequences. These consequences include swaying wildy from side to side on the tram whilst standing on one leg and hanging onto a ceiling strap for dear life. The seats are resolutely held on to by those secretaries who get on at the beginning of the line because they can’t afford houses nearer to work, and by those senior execs who are commuting from mansionettes on the borders of the Surrey countryside. Maybe it is the class conflict between these two castes that means that neither is prepared to make the first move and offer a seat to a man with a broken leg? Perhaps witnessing such blood sport early in the morning makes the average Croydon commuter feel better about their lot? Either way, it’s a jungle out there.

Once I get to the station, I reward myself with a cup of coffee. Which I can’t carry. So my brown corduroy American poet’s jacket comes into its own. The coffee is stashed in the pocket, spills everywhere, and will make the jacket smell like a senior common room for the rest of its days. Which is only appropriate really. It was either that, or elbow patches. And I can’t really sew.

It’s not really where I imagined myself – teaching again after I so triumphantly gave it up to pursue a Bohemian life of music. I had thought the corduroy jacket was an ironic purchase. However, I’m quite enjoying a brief spell in the classroom, and Glyndebourne are going to have me back next year, so it shouldn’t be for too long. Rumour has it that their staging of Bach's Matthew Passion may be set in the war-torn Balkans, so a bit of limping and an impressive facial scar should fit right in. In the meantime, I’ve finally been forced to teach Hamlet, after years of steadfastly avoiding it, and am revisiting the Homecoming, which I hope isn’t prophetic.

Test Drive

Today has been about test-driving my new cast. And my top speed has dropped considerably, now that my ankle joint is rigidly entombed in day-glo green fibreglass. But I can wear long trousers, and am not stopped every five minutes by curious passers-by, so my average speed is probably about the same.

It was my Glyndebourne audition today. An occasion of mixed feelings. It was great to feel back in the loop, and singing properly, which I haven’t been able to do since July. By the same token, I knew that the audition was as much about checking that I would be physically capable of doing the job as it was about how I performed. The point was incidentally made by the fact that I had to tackle several steps down to the platform with no handrail, and looked distinctly shaky. I was offered the possibility of performing sitting down, but I felt that Donizetti in the style of Daniel O’Donnelly was probably not the way forward. And it did feel like a step back. Last year I was asking about the roles I could cover. This year, I will be grateful if they believe that I can get onto stage without any visible means of support. And they definitely didn’t have day-glo casts in Nineteenth-Century Italy.

I think I acquitted myself okay. It is always difficult to tell, and the fact that I hadn’t practised with a pianist since the summer definitely showed. Still, I sang lots of loud top notes, which generally does the trick for us tenors. Slightly more disconcertingly, the first thing that my boss commented on was the scar on my forehead. If it’s so obvious in a shadowy hall, I suspect it will look as if you could unzip my scalp once I’m under stage lighting. I guess it’s a career of playing baddies and pirates then.

On the way home, I was congratulating myself on my cast-impaired mobility, and how smug I felt that I had walked to the audition venue from Waterloo. I should have spotted my hubris as I struggled with the basic camber of the pavement outside Lambeth North. However, it took a rainstorm to really bring me down to earth. As I tottered back from the tram stop, the heavens opened, my crutches started slipping in every direction, and I began to resemble Bambi on ice. Except I doubt Bambi swore quite so comprehensively. I did stay upright. Just. But I was very nearly undone on several occasions by the ‘wrong sort of leaf’, and the antediluvial layer of dog poo that coats every Croydon pavement. I guess I still have a little way to go, frameless or not. But Sarah is quite insistent that I join the family at a ‘tea dance’ tomorrow. So I’d better start practising some moves…

Reconstruction

Irish Dave and Alice have come up trumps, and I have some lovely photos of the accident site. As I have no memory of the event, I have designed a reconstruction as a possible aide-memoire. It can be viewed by clicking here. It takes a little time to load, as is a bit rough and ready. I really have to get out more.

more leggy shots

More before and after shots. You may agree that despite the lurid colour of my glossy new cast, it still looks a good deal more salubrious than the naked leg. No shorts for me next summer, I fear. I had imagined a subtle forest shade when I requested a green cast in the plaster room. Oh well. With my new day-glo extremity, it would be a brave driver who claimed that he couldn’t see me crossing the road for the next few weeks. Just a short blog. I’m off to try and see if I can fit into a pair of trousers.

Hooray!

Hooray! My breezy surgeon breezed in today, breezed around my leg, and decided to breeze off my frame. Incredibly, there was a slot in theatre, and less incredibly, I had forgotten to have breakfast, so was all ready to go. After months of everything seeming to go in slow motion, I was to be separated from my stainless steel friend in an almost indecent hurry. It was an odd moment too, as although I had found myself in a frame of mind where I viewed my metalwork as the enemy, the prospect of having it removed reminded me that it was in fact the only reason why my leg was still there, and it’s been doing a fine job. I am also going to have to have a cast for a few weeks, as one of my breaks is still a little ‘unstable’. In fact, I rather wish I hadn’t been told this, as I’m sure that I can now feel exactly where this instability is, and have the odd sensation of my lower leg dangling from a bit of jelly. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. So I suspect that I shall be spending more pointless hours on the internet trying to fill my head with further half-understood medical jargon.
My surgeon did offer me the opportunity of having it taken off without anaesthesia. Even he was prepared to admit that it was a little on the large side for this approach, and that it would hurt. This, and the fact that his colleague was behind his back, looking wide-eyed, and shaking his head sagely, convinced me that discretion was the better part of valour. Unfortunately, the fact that I was offered the option has opened me up to charges of cowardice from friends and family. It’s a price I’m prepared to pay.

So here we are. I should now be able to contemplate the possibility of wearing long trousers, and should be less of a circus freak as I walk around in public. I’m still unable to bathe, so can enjoy my new-found aromas for a few more weeks. So it’s all good news.I've attached before and after shots. I hope to sneak a crafty photo of my bare leg as it gets clad in plaster tomorrow. Notice the large black arrow on the ‘before’ photo. I’m hoping that this is a reflection of over-caution, rather than of a myopic surgeon. But so far, no complaints!

Rubber band

A new week, and a new set of extraordinary physio exercises. After today’s visit to my physio Mo – a lovely guy, by the way – I came away with a large rubber band, and the knowledge that I would have to postpone any visits to the rowing machine, as my metalwork would currently get in the way of the mechanism. I can’t say I felt too upset about this. My friend Bockers has had a rowing machine for years, and only used it as a sliding seat between his CD rack and stereo. The couple of times that I succumbed to its charms, it took only minutes before I was showing the early signs of heart failure. I was just happy in the knowledge that by walking from his CD rack to his stereo, I was maintaining a healthier lifestyle than Bockers.

The rubber band is exciting. I have attached an action shot. The temptation to use it as a rudimentary catapult is high, but I have to remember that physio is a serious business. Although it is quite hard to maintain this view when you’re tied in knots, your leg flailing wildly above your head.

Today’s visit to St. Georges is the first of two visits this week. The next is tomorrow, and it is to see my consultant. The physio will come in useful, as the x-ray technicians always seem to want pictures taken from bizarre angles, and are only content if you can maintain an extremely uncomfortable pose in complete stillness until they have run for cover behind a lead screen. It can never be as bad as it once was for William, however. He once woke up from an anaesthetic whilst being strapped upright into a chair to facilitate a chest x-ray. It looked for all the world as if he was being prepared for a 2,000 volt shock, and even though the 1 year-old William wasn’t, to my knowledge, aware of the barbarous law and order policies of the Southern states of America, it was still enough to terrify the poor bugger half to death.

And on the subject of things fearful, I have to admit to some trepidation about tomorrow’s appointment. And not just because when I took the bus trip to Tooting today, I was twice assaulted by senior citizens wielding their shopping trolleys like weapons. The nerves come from my desperate hope that I might see some progress on the leg front, coupled with the knowledge that last time I saw my consultant, he informed me of the slow nature of my recovery. And the only thing I can realistically do to speed things up, is to work hard at my physio. So bring on the rubber band. And whatever else it takes. It’s either that, or I will have to bend to the inevitable, and get some Christmas lights and tinsel to drape around my frame. Which would at least provide it with some decent camouflage as I walk around the shops of Croydon.

The slow arm of the law

I had a phone call from the police today. I was hobbling towards a tour of William's prospective 'special school', so for once was grateful for their startling brevity. It seems that they have ‘summonsed’ the car driver who so thoughtfully ran me over. He has been summonsed for driving without due care and attention. Obviously, as I have the benefit of time on the sofa and a laptop, I looked this up on the internet. It seems that ‘the offence of driving without due care and attention is committed when the driving falls below the standard expected of a reasonable, prudent and competent driver in all the circumstances of the case.’ I’m rather hoping that he is man enough to admit that flooring it when the light goes amber, hurtling across a pelican crossing, clattering into a pedestrian, shattering his leg, knackering his face, and hurling him yards down the road does not qualify as ‘prudent’ or ‘competent’. I may be wrong of course – he may choose to contest it, especially as the witnesses seem to have been put off by the 12 page document they were asked to complete two months after the event. I wouldn’t be surprised if even the driver had forgotten things by now.

The whole legal thing is very interesting though. If he is convicted of driving without due care, does this increase my chances of claiming compensation? Therefore, is he less likely to admit it? How can I be any use in the witness box, when I can’t remember anything about it? Should I try hypnotherapy? Would this drag up all sorts of other appalling skeletons from the closet that I have chosen to forget? I must have some juicy childhood traumas. And an increasing number of people are choosing to frame their unsolicited comments around my chances to make some compensation. I had to lie to somebody the other day and say that it had been a hit and run, just to stop their visibly jealous ramblings about the possibility that I might make some cash. And I was stopped on Croydon High Street by a lawyer, touting for business. I can only hope that he hasn’t knocked anybody over himself, in his urgency to chase ambulances. What else was he hoping to see in Croydon High Street for goodness’ sake? Unsafe arrests for shoplifting? Families that looked as if paternity suits would be appropriate? Impending marital breakups?

What can the injured party make of all of this? Well. The driver may get some points on his license, and maybe an increased insurance premium. I have been unable to walk, bathe or in any way normally function for four months and counting. My face looks as if I have a permanent quizzical look engraved on my forehead. I spent a month in hospital, and have been in not inconsiderable pain. I have not been able to work. I missed my opportunity to cover at Glyndebourne for the first time, and a number of other opportunities besides. I have been very careful not to feel sorry for myself, but I will certainly feel no compunction in turning to the law, despite my instinctive dislike of the litigious society and compensation culture. So there. I was only trying to cross the road, after all. But, and this is important, I would have given every penny I have for this accident not to have happened. Which is, admittedly, a little easier to say when you’re broke.

In the meantime, I have been asked to provide photos of the scene for my potential lawyer. I think I’ve got it organised, though haven’t quite had the heart to explain why it has taken a while. It is, in fact, because the message had to get through to Irish Dave, who had to borrow the camera from Alice, with whom he is currently enjoying a dalliance, and who was my first girlfriend, and then he had to take the photos under the detailed instructions of Matthew, who was with me at the time of the accident. After all that, the four months it took the police to prosecute the driver seem like the blink of an eye. Still, I suppose the cogs of justice turn slowly.

Flat out

It’s been eight days since my last blogfessional. In that time, I am pleased to say that not a great deal has happened – which is a state of affairs that suits the enforced sofa dweller. However, I have, in fact, been up and about a fair amount, and reckon that I am averaging about a mile a day on my crutches, which I really hope will speed up my healing. The physio has even started me hobbling around the house with one crutch, which is terrifying, and quite painful. It also means that I wave my empty arm around like a dodo vainly attempting take-off. Sarah has hinted that I should now be able to carry things around. Only, of course, if the thing doesn’t mind being frenetically spun around. A cup of tea is clearly out of the question. (Though would be quite funny.)

Beyond spraying tea around when I’m on one crutch, my increased mobility on two has the added risk of exposing me to the world of shopping; a dangerous world to encounter when you have been off work for four months. I did succumb this week to the urge to buy a pair of sunglasses, but managed to establish a complicated justification involving the fact that it is rare to find a pair that don’t make me look like Hilda Ogden, and something about it being a good time of year to take advantage of their seasonal reduction. Desperate, really.

A big plus with my improving hobbling style was establishing that I could travel independently to my flat. The unfortunate thing is that my flat no longer represents the oasis of Bachelorhood that it once was. My trip was to see a builder. The flat flooded at about the same time I left hospital, and was subsequently attended to by a ‘drying’ company. Unfortunately, as I was in no fit state to kick arse, they failed to do their job right. Kicking an arse presents quite an interesting issue from a physiotherapy point of view. Would I be better off using my right leg, where I would struggle to gain velocity, but have a good deal of weight that I could bring to bear, or should I use my left, which would require me to balance on my bad leg – a skill I will have to re-learn?

I digress. But arse-kicking is an important skill to re-acquire, as it seems that every form of bureaucracy that I have encountered in the last four months would benefit from a little swift application of pressure to its vulnerable nether parts. Even the Red Cross have been rubbish, as due to their own paperwork failure, they assumed I should have returned their wheelchair two weeks before I had even picked it up in July. A harmless error, had they not kept my £40 deposit as a result. £40 which I could have taken from my benefit money, had the benefit office not failed to sort it out yet, as they sent me back my Doctor’s certificates by mistake, and then failed to tell me how to sort it out. Ah, the caring face of the welfare state. Shame the tax man isn’t so incompetent when it comes to asking for cash.

Back to my flat. Where I might be able to go, once it’s been rebuilt. It appears that the drying company not only dragged everything out by failing to work hard enough, fast enough, but that they have also unnecessarily removed bricks from the wall. Which is an interesting urge. ‘In my capacity as an insurance repairman, I think I’ll just remove a few bricks from this wall, to see what it does…’ Intriguing. So the builders have a job on, which they won’t be able to start for another few weeks. And in the meantime, my James Bond DVD collection is sitting on my sofa. Which isn’t the right way round at all. At least the water board seem to be taking the flooding seriously, and Dad has taken the opportunity to devise a water resistant front door. If he could extend the principle to include a resistance to junk mail and letters from the tax man, I reckon he could have quite a business opportunity.

Chocolate surfing

Happily, after yesterday’s exertions, all is back to normal on the sofa. It was glorious to be out, was good for the soul, and great to see so many familiar faces at the pub. Andy – whose intact return from the land of unexploded ordinance we were celebrating - is back off to Angola shortly, but has said he will look in on the blog. Prove it Andy! (I shall be looking for comments…) There has been little action on the proofreading front, and I am happy to give my new walking habit a rest for the day, as it is pretty chilly out, and my masonic trousers only provide warmth to one leg. William is being kept out of trouble by a nurse, who seems tuned-in to his Thomas obsession and ability to spend 45minutes building towers and knocking them down again. So, it’s back to the nest, and time for a bit more aimless surfing.

It is difficult to imagine what I could have done before the world-wide web was at my fingertips. I can only assume that I read books. After all, I did end up with an English degree. But I can’t seem to remember a time when I didn’t spend my free moments researching the yacht that I’m going to buy and moor next to my beachfront property on a Scottish island. The fantasy shopping that can be done strolling down Burlington arcade is nothing compared to that which can be done from the comfort of the sofa. Recent highlights have included endlessly researching the possibilities of selling my apparently permanently flooded flat and buying a barn to convert in Brittany. I’ve also looked into the practicalities of keeping chickens.

There are clear patterns to be discerned from a ‘history folder’. Today, even the most amateur of psychologists would have worked out that I had run out of chocolate. Hence the visits to Montezumas, Hotel du Chocolat, and Choccywoccydodah. And, immensely gratifyingly, Google spotted a spelling mistake in the latter, and suggested ‘Did you mean Choccywoccydoodah? It’s great to know that even American search engines know their way to a decent chocolate shop. I know, too, that Andy shares my enthusiasm for fine chocolate. I wonder if they deliver to Angola?

To my mind though, what makes the web so annoyingly addictive is its ability to draw you off in all sorts of unpredictable directions. And so it was that a trip to an online chocolate shop led me to a link to the LPO’s website. I have attached a screenshot. I had no idea that they had branched out.

Expedition

I really got quite ambitious today, and went for the big one – an excursion into the big smoke. In fact, I’m technically still there, as I’m writing this in a coffee shop. Very metro-sexual; blogging in a branch of Starbuck’s. In fact, though, I’m not online, as their wifi ‘hotspot’ is not progressive enough to accept my debit card. So my cunning plan of killing a few hours doing some proofreading whilst attempting to spin a latte out for five hours has come to nothing. And there are probably urgent things in my inbox that I don’t know about.

Hang on. This sounds like work anxiety. Aren’t I supposed to be warming the sofa, and having cups of tea brought to me? Isn’t the extent of my stress supposed to be about whether to watch Neighbours or aimlessly surf ebay? Surely something has gone wrong? This process of healing and normalisation is not all it is cracked up to be.

The other stress-raising factor has been negotiating London’s public transport system whilst trying to avoid large flights of stairs and any escalators. Trust me, this is no easy task. I now believe that everybody should try this once, just as a form of research. At least it would stop people from rushing to the ‘priority seats’ because they are feeling a little jaded, or because they need both hands to turn the pages of ‘Heat’ magazine. I had to stand for the duration of a long tram journey, not because it was particularly busy, but because the seats were always pinched by the passengers who had already proved their politeness credentials by getting on before anybody had a chance to leave. I resisted the temptation to say anything, not least because it is not pleasant having to spend a thirty-minute journey with somebody who is trying to give you the ‘evil eye’ every time you look up from your crossword. So I stood, and was pretty jaded by the time I even got to Covent Garden, where I had an audition. But for the busking slot. Pride has to be swallowed a good deal when the chips are down in my job. And it didn’t help that I saw that a soprano I duetted with at college is about to sing Mimi at the ROH. Them’s the breaks though, and she’s good, so I suppose that’s alright. I’ll let her off the personal slight that she has unknowingly dealt me.

A fortunate coincidence of my first trip into town has been that this audition coincided with a night out planned with a crowd of my friends. Andy Moore is back in town, fresh from defusing landmines in Angola. And the bugger has two working legs, so there is no justice. A decent evening looms though, but left me quite a few hours to kill in the West End. So I did what I always do in these circumstances, which was head for the National Gallery. Never before has it seemed so far away, or so echoingly large. But I bumped into two singing pals en-route, which just proves that it is actually a small world; it just feels like a large one when you’re having to negotiate it on crutches.

My cup of tea was finished some time ago. I would feel slightly more guilty about hogging the table if the kind assistant hadn’t taken my drink to the table without putting any milk in it first. And I'm sure I've added to Starbuck’s chic image by sitting here in my corduroy jacket, blogging away. In fact, I’ve even managed to get some product placement on the photo.

Freedom! ish.

My physio set me a task last week. To raise my leg to the horizontal from a sitting position. He gave me a month. I did it in a week. (I haven’t figured out how to get it back down again, but that wasn’t part of deal.) Then the bugger went and cancelled the next appointment, so I can’t show off to him. Sarah failed to fake the correct amount of excitement, so I’m blogging about it instead. Unfortunately, I’m guessing that few other than myself would be hugely impressed by me being able to stick my leg out. So I shall just have to bathe in my own glory. It's about the only bathing I shall be doing. Things are clearly improving on the leg front, but as you can see from the picture, the closest I get to the bath is still having to spend some time every morning cleaning all the pins. I still can’t shower or bath the rest of me, so I remain a dab hand with a flannel. Other annoyances remain too. I can’t turn over in my sleep. I'm still on antibiotics. I can't bend down and pick up my son. But, and this is a huge step forward, I can now hobble as far as the tram stop, which means freedom!

It is a little unfortunate that my new-found ability to escape the confines of the front room has coincided with a temporary job that glues me to my computer. However, I am making time to escape, and it is good for the soul. I managed to re-acquaint myself with the delights of the Macdonald’s quarterpounder. I have perused the rails of gaudy shirts on offer at TKMaxx. I have bought a corduroy jacket that makes me look like an American novelist. All is well with the world.

There are unfortunate consequences to my public outings. There is nothing subtle about my right leg, and the pins are too long to fit under the most spectacular pair of flares. Even the ones on sale at TKMaxx. The skin grafts still seem to cause passers-by to wince involuntarily. But far more annoying than this, is the fact that a significant proportion of the Croydon populace feel that they have to pass comment. I suppose it is good that they feel they can. Maybe.

There are two varieties of commenting stranger. The first is reasonably harmless. They are the ones who simply want to know what happened, through sheer insatiable curiosity. In time, I will invent a suitable story about a shark attack to cope with this variety of comment. However, the second variety of chatty stranger is the sort who actually wants to tell you about their own woes. My favourite so far, and there are quite a few to choose from, is the man who bounded up to me and went, “Snap!” “Oh,” I said, “have you had one of these frames?” “No, but I have terrible trouble with my knee…” Etc. Etc. I can only hope that the trouble was caused by somebody kneecapping him.

On the whole though, things are seriously looking up. I was even able to right myself after slipping on a piece of budget knitwear in Alders, so I know I’m ready to be let loose. The only other slight downside to my new ability to roam is the fact that I am getting blisters on my hands. I looked up ‘rowing blisters’ on Google to see if I could gain any insight into remedies, and discovered that you should let them harden into callouses. Which is frustrating, because I spent some time in the House of Fraser liberally applying free samples of Molton and Brown hand cream. Serves me right, I suppose.

Haircut

A glance at the photo on the last entry reveals what looks like a scary comb-over. A particularly unfortunate feature, given the admission of my previous English teaching past. Perhaps I should also have dusted off my tweed jacket for the photo shoot? I think it's time I got the clippers out again. Their last outing was to cruelly rid William of his flowing locks... (And doesn't he look happy about it?!)

Working for a living

In a strange moment of synchronicity, the last week brought a terrifying tax bill and the possible means to pay some of it. In fact, my enforced sofa-time has come into its own, as my friend has passed some proofreading my way, and where better to do it than the sofa? This has been an income-supplementing plan of mine for some time, as I reckon an English teaching CV featuring Eton College has got to be worth something more tangible than a lingering sense of republicanism, an instinctive distrust of David Cameron and a sock drawer full of starched wing collars. So, rather than spending hours on my computer researching the nether regions of e-bay, I have set to work on proofreading hundreds of management consultancy reports.

It is, naturally, in the nature of anyone working for the arts that they have a distrust of the world of business. It is a world that the proper aesthete aims to avoid at all costs; a world full of sordid cash, shady deals and precious little else. A world I have fully embraced in the interests of paying my tax bill. Bring it on.

What has struck me most about the nature of this work is the clear sense that the report writers are all keen to sound as impressive as possible. This means, unfortunately, that jargon is thick on the ground, and the full stop is conspicuous by its absence. Everything needs to be restated in as many complex ways as possible. There has been an obvious collective decision to treat the word ‘data’ as plural, which would be fine, were it not for the fact that it comes so unnaturally that almost every writer treats it as singular too. Americanisms and coinages are everywhere. There are ‘business-speak’ phrases abounding, that I simply don’t remember encountering in my degree specialism on Arthurian literature. In short, it has proved quite hard work, and not the skim-through for typos that I expected. Which is good, because it allows me to use my brain for something other than working out how best to take that tricky corner in ‘Burnout Legends’ on my PSP. And I will be able to pay my tax bill.

In the meantime, William continues to test Daddy in his own special way. ‘Old Macdonald had a wheels on the bus go round and round’. Charles Ives would be proud. And I’m hoping that by working until 1am last night in order to clear the decks a little today, I won’t simply have freed up my computer for William to demand a go on the Thomas the Tank Engine website. I’m hoping that it’s freed it up for surfing the nether regions of ebay. I want to fantasise about spending my new city salary on Hi-Fi.

More singing practice

It seems as though I’m wanted back at Glyndebourne next year, but that they want to audition me, as that’s the form. I’m already quite concerned about the marble steps outside the audition venue. If I remember rightly, they polish the varnished floor too. Still, I needn’t worry too much about the fact that I’m out of practice, as, in order to keep William entertained, I’m currently singing everyday. In fact, if I were to choose any of the ‘Balamory’ theme tunes for my audition piece, I’d be away. Perhaps I should postulate ‘Balamory – the Opera’ to the music staff. I’m thinking the Miss Hoolie/PC Plum/Archie the Inventor love triangle holds some pretty fruity possibilities, even to the uninitiated.

At least the discovery of the ‘Balamory Karaoke’ has briefly distracted the boy from the delights of the Teletubby website. For a short time, the repetition of Archie’s song was a small price to pay for the demise of Tinky Winky grooving to a distinctly shaky rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. However, one of the many legacies of William’s Teletubby obsession is his use of the phrase ‘Again’. And even Archie’s song starts to pale the fourteenth time round. There are others that pale considerably more quickly.

William’s new game however, is imagining what Old Macdonald might have in his farm. The pattern goes – ‘Owd deedonnol ad dee edidant, Ee Ay Ee Ay O!’ An expectant look. Cue daddy doing elephant noises. You would imagine that this points to a fairly impressive menagerie for Old Macdonald. Elephants, however, are only the beginnings of Old Macdonald’s branching out. William’s imaginings of this farm include tigers, Teletubbies, Thomas, Bertie, cars, buses and, naturally, his sisters. This is all quite a test for my repertoire of sound effects. Where the imagination is really stretched, however, is when he decides that there are pens, nappies and panda books there too. I admit to the odd failure of inspiration, but quite enjoyed the nappy verse.

Perhaps this is the answer for the impending Glyndebourne audition. Rather than totter in and clatter my way through a bit of Mozart, I could suggest an interactive experience. Members of the panel could suggest farm animals for Old Macdonald, and I could incorporate them into the verses. I’d love to see what they came up with. I have a sneaking suspicion they wouldn’t hear my panda book impression though, which is a shame, as I’m quite proud of it really.

Daytime tv

Daytime television gold. For moments like this, it is surely even worth being patronised by adverts recognising your invalid debtor status. Yesterday and today, Diagnosis Murder met Matlock in a glorious moment of synergy. It was beautiful to behold. I could only imagine the moment at the Beverly Hills golf club when the two old pros chatted over an exotic salad, and decided to indulge themselves in this way. But thank goodness they did, as it doubtless brightened up the life of more than one sofa squatter.

In fact, I can’t say I’ve ever seen Matlock, but I knew it must have been a significant moment, as Dick van Dyke first addressed the back of the guest star’s head, before he slowly turned to an almost audible drumroll. The scene was Shakespearian in scope, and must have caused many a twinkie to drop from the shocked fingers of a corpulent American TV addict. Fortunately for me, the doorbell went halfway through the first episode, and my friends Tim and Emily arrived, bearing jam tarts. Which I’m sure are nicer than ‘twinkies’, whatever they are.

Emily is nine months and a few days pregnant. Her normal good company was enhanced by the fact that she, too, has spent a good deal of time on the sofa recently. We were able to swap stories about backache caused by being forced to sleep in one position all night. A moment of empathy I can’t say I had ever envisaged. As a student, I had spent many an hour with Tim doing very little during the hours of daylight, but he is clearly less accustomed to advanced loafing now. I don’t think the thought of a Diagnosis Murder/Matlock love-in was in any way going to win him over, though I was proud to hear that he had spent a good deal of his new found time battering on the doors of bureaucracy, so he is clearly learning quickly. Emily’s decision to turn to baking jam tarts is possibly a boredom-avoidance tactic that I shall eschew. One-legged baking is a skill I feel I can probably manage without.

At least I was able to watch today’s second part uninterrupted. Which was a shame. I’m hanging out for the next great daytime tv event though. Perhaps Raymond Burr hurtling out of control as he seeks to flee a white balloon in a Prisoner/Ironside crossover. Or Top Gear meets Traffic Cops.

Croydon's latest road user

Having blogged on the state of Croydon's road users, I thought I should introduce the most recent wheeled danger to the tarmac of South London. William has a new push chair. It is, in fact, a proper wheel chair, and he is being encouraged to propel himself. So far, he has taken most delight in his ability to operate the brakes... Be very afraid!

Fast cars

This is my dream car. A Caterham Seven. I have always been determined to own a sports car before I lost all my hair, and looked like the sort of sad, mid-life crisis wracked male who is generally the only sort of person who can afford one. The last car I actually owned was a Renault 5. And my hairline is rapidly receding past the equinox.

I should at least be a good insurance bet. After the age of 17, I have never made a claim. I think I am a safe driver. Which is a little difficult to square with wanting a car that is known for its track performance. I have, however, always done my best to avoid breaking pedestrians' legs. Which is more than some drivers I have encountered. I know that insurance companies don't like insuring musicians though. I think they imagine that we all pile out of gigs in a drug-induced frenzy, wild on tequila and Mojitos, and impressing the groupies on our arms. I can't say that this accurately describes my experiences of leaving such glorious venues as the Coliseum in Aberdare, glad to have finished the twenty fourth performance of the Barber of Seville, and having polished off a night’s work with a cup of tea.

All of which brings me to my point. My brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law came around yesterday for a cup of tea. He is a difficult brother for the penniless car enthusiast to have, as his job involves testing new cars. He is about to start work on a new TVR, which is apparently capable of 0-60 in under 4 seconds. I don’t think I actually went visibly green with envy… It at least meant that he could help get me to the park with the kids, as getting there and back is still a little too far on crutches, and Sarah finds using the wheelchair too hefty.

On route, we were able to encounter the weekend road users of Croydon. Oh dear. Having given up a (minor) smoking habit, I had always managed to avoid becoming one of those annoying anti-smoking vigilantes. The same level of post-trauma understanding does not seem to distinguish my attitude after having been flattened by an RTA. It is particularly galling to see somebody safely cross the road through the tried and tested method of holding out their hand to stop traffic, whilst stepping off the kerb and not looking. Why aren’t these people hobbling around with scaffolding nailed to their legs? Is there no justice? Why can’t the speeding twits doing wheelies on mopeds through residential areas simply take themselves quietly out of the gene pool, without threatening any of the rest of us? And why do they build in safety features to the design of BMWs, when all it means is that the prats who drive them will kill somebody other than themselves when they thoughtfully test the acceleration in a crowded suburb. I’d put the airbags on the bumpers, and make the BMW logo on the steering wheel spiky. Not that I’m bitter. Much.

I wonder if my annoying road safety awareness will continue once I can drive again? The family car is visible from the sofa. I very much suspect that the battery is flat. In the meantime, I shall continue to fantasise about my fast car. I just have to wait until I’m completely bald. It can’t be too long now…

Incidentally...

I found this on a genuine academic website about the uses of the Ilizarov frame. Imagine what the world wide web would have looked like if it was around during the reign of Queen Victoria...

Physiotherapain

It’s funny how physiotherapy diagrams always manage to avoid showing the face. If they did, there would be a particular sort of grimace that the patient would need to achieve at the end of any ‘stretch’. The sort of expression that is generally reserved for watching a car crash in its early stages. If any medical textbook illustrators needed to know the sort of thing, I now have it down pat.

The illustration above is from a booklet I found on the web. I couldn’t do this with my good leg. On a good day. Clearly, I have discovered the Ilazarov physiotherapy textbook for ballet dancers. However, I do now have some of my own exercises to do. Perhaps not quite as impressive as the picture, but pretty spectacular for a chap who walks as if he has a rod up his bottom even when he is fit and well.

These exercises were the positives that I brought away from my visit to St. George’s yesterday. The negatives were a little frustrating. My release date has been knocked back another 6 weeks at least, as my leg is healing, but not desperately quickly. My consultant was extremely helpful, confidence inspiring in his obvious expertise, and supportive. Yesterday I would happily have traded all of this for a fly-by-night scalpel-jockey who was prepared to tell me that I would have the frame taken off within hours, and would be playing football by the end of the week. Even though I don’t really play football.

Physiotherapy is the way forward though. I don’t know if it will really make enough of a difference to justify the pain of trying to do aerobics with sputnik screwed to my leg, but I’m going to have to assume that it will. It does, of course, allow me to believe that I can play a part in my own recovery. Because after a while, it’s difficult to believe that the best way you can improve yourself is by sitting with your foot up in front of daytime television. Especially when an hour of the current morning schedule is filled with the hard luck stories of other poor buggers who have found themselves flung at the mercy of the medical profession.

In the meantime, Sarah has come back from her evening jog. She took up running at roughly the same time that I arrived on her doorstep with little functioning from the knee down. My evening will be taken up with fielding Sarah’s chatter about her running hobby, whilst a documentary about ballet dancers is on in the background. I might go into the kitchen to try a bit more physio. And there’s an open bottle of wine in there.

crutchwork

It took me a while to track this photo down. This is Dr. Ilizarov. The man who realised that with the cunning application of the bicycle spoke, people's legs could be saved from the operating theatre's floor. Obviously a great man. However, when you are entirely at the whim of the piece of ironwork he invented, you cannot be blamed for pointing out the passing resemblance he shows to Groucho Marx. Or how he looks as if he has just stepped out of the kitchen of his thriving bakery business.

However, life is looking up today, as the aching from my fall is subsiding, and I have been perfecting my crutch technique. In fact, I'm quite proud of it. Obviously, this would seem a strange boast 48 hours after I fell on my arse on a stretch of level ground, but I'm not referring to the use of a pair of crutches as a means of propulsion. In fact, the humble crutch becomes an extremely versatile tool in the hands of the sofa bound. It can switch the ight on and off, drag a paperback to within reach, or act as a rudimentary first line of defence for a toddler determined to climb on your frame. I have also used my crutch to kill spiders. Humanely, obviously. To turn the pages of a newspaper. And to rescue the remote control when your partner has left you alone in the room with the television showing endless repeats of 'Most Haunted'. Today, though, was my virtuoso moment. It took me 30 mins, resulted in backstrain, and was of limited point, but I managed to use my crutch to put a sock on. Not an insignificant feat when you are alone in the house, wearing a pair of shorts, and the temperature is starting to drop.

If you at all doubt the triumph that I felt, give it a try with a couple of broomsticks. Just allow yourself a fair while. And you may, of course, decide that your time could be better spent.

Escape

I am becoming at one with The History Channel. It is the only place where the inveterate (should that be invertebrate) sofa dweller can always find something to watch that at least isn't full of hysterical D-list celebrities. It is also a useful tool when it comes to frightening away children. Nothing shifts a chattering 10-year old girl faster than the prospect of being stuck in a room with a documentary about tank tactics in Normandy. Which is why I had it on yesterday, and was enjoying a film about the true life 'great escape'. Highly appropriate, as yesterday afternoon was the first time I had got away from the house in three months, other than a trip to the hospital, and a weekend at William's hospice.

Hurrah for my friends, who realise that a large part of the healing process is remembering what it is to widen your frame of reference beyond the daytime television schedule and the far reaches of the Ebay universe. And I was just beginning to really settle in!

A top evening. I remembered why I love my job, and my colleagues. And I was pleased to note that the gossip had failed to move on at all in my absence - merely grown in intensity. I was proud of myself for hobbling 500yds to the tram stop. I managed to cope with the ignominy of the Croydon shopping community failing to disguise their staring at my leg. I was very good. I had two early Guinesses (Guini?), then I drank Coke. I shared my chocolate. I was insanely polite to the random drunk punter in the pub who wanted to know what had happened to me, then used this as a pretext to bore us all with some of the most laboured humour I'e ever endured. Then we left the pub, I slipped on the wet pavement, and fell on my arse. Very painful - quite scary, and generally extremely embarrassing. Is somebody trying to tell me something, I wonder? The last time I left a pub, look what happened. I got away with it. I did have to make an early escape in a cab, and my leg's still sore, but not sore enough to suggest I've done myself any significant damage. And it was worth it. Even, believe it or not, for a night out in Croydon.

sofa rage!

Road rage is, of course, a dangerous business. Cars are fast moving, leg-breaking hunks of metal. I should know. Sofas are soft furnishings. So I don't mind admitting to a bit of sofa rage. You can have a cup of tea at the same time.

I witnessed a nasty road rage incident a few months ago. A man stepped out of a car at the lights, walked up to the driver's window of the car next door, and repeatedly punched the driver. I phoned the police, got through to a call centre in Nottingham, and was assured that the area of South London I was describing didn't appear on their computers. There were CCTV cameras there, but they were pointed in another direction, in order to catch minor infringements of the bus lane. I was caught by that camera a few weeks earlier, for straying into the end of the lane whilst turning left. I was offered no recourse unless I was prepared to pay double the fine. And I never heard about the road rage incident, despite the fact that I had given them the licence plate of the offender.

All of which brings me to my point. In today's bureaucratic spaghetti dish of existence, is it any wonder that rage sets in. And if you are sofa-bound, and thus dependent on relying on the competence of others, the rage becomes incandescent... Can you rely on the competence of others?

I could use this blog to vent my rage. Why should I though, when I have ameliorated it by reaching for the phone and word processor, and vented it on the people who deserve it. Far more satisfying. Like the people who are drying my flooded flat, and two months on, have only now decided that the plaster is wet, and that it's not a French polisher that I need. They got a letter. And the Wheelchair supplier, who can't understand why I can't bring my wheeelchair in for servicing myself, even though it's not self-propelled. A phone-call. The doctor's receptionist who repeatedly insists on suggesting that I have an appointment at the top of two flights of stairs. Repeated phone calls. (I think they've finally given in to me...!) The gas company, who cite 3 phone numbers on their bill, all leading to the same automised machine that you have to convince you have a leak before it will put you through to a human being. A phone call. And even then, I had to convince the 'operative' that I didn't want to buy any extra services...

I saved my most spleen for my bank though. Nat West. When I asked for a mortgage holiday, they suggested I contact my bank (Nat West) to borrow more money to pay my mortgage company (Nat West). I spent half an hour finding a number to complain to, was assured that I would be phoned back, and wasn't. Great work!! I'm planning to save this one up for a rainy day. I think it will be a two cup of tea phone call, possibly followed by a email requiring a piece of cake. So much better than a shouting match at a set of traffic lights. I just need a horn fitting to the arm of the sofa.

work?

This is a pig I animated for my friend Mikey's website. (www.stytunes.co.uk). It is a good example of what you are reduced to, when your work opportunities are restricted by four walls and the need to put your foot on a cushion. I should be currently earning money by pretending to be a turn of the century aristocratic party-goer, moved into song by the excitements of Prince Orlovsky's party. I can sympathise with those who might consider this to be a job of work roughly comparable to animating pig pictures. However, singing is my chosen profession, and one that I have trained and sacrificied for. So there. And I animated the pig for love, not cash!

I know that my next opera contract is in February, so have some time to fill. Ideally, this would be in a way that paid my mortgage, as this is a growing consideration. Instead, I seem to have found myself doing things out of the goodness of my heart, as I can generally cobble something together on a computer, but those with cash to spend would generally choose to spend it elsewhere. Hence the pig. And the posters for the Brompton Fountain charity that Sarah directs. And their flyers. And their membership database. Well, at least it makes me feel a little less guilty about staying at her house...

I have been practising some singing - it is good for morale to know that the accident didn't wreck my voice, and it's important to keep everything working. However, I've had to wait for those few opportunities when I am on my own, and when I can stay upright for a while without too much discomfort. The neighbours, I'm afraid, just have to suffer it. However, most of the hours I could describe as 'working', are spent doodling around on my laptop. Which is creaking under the weight of various 'trial version' programs. It copes, just.

There is another limiting factor to my laptop-based activities. In fact, a menace that makes it impossible to do pretty much anything after lunchtime. Don't be fooled by the cherubic smile. William has now decided that my laptop is not my laptop at all. It is my 'Bubby Boog'. Tellytubby book. My fault of course. I should never have let him look at the BBC website. It is astonishing how much time he can happily spend playing 'Animal Parade'. And he insists that the book is shut when he is not playing with it. Leaving me twiddling my thumbs and watching CBEEBIES. Again.

In the meantime, I await orders from those requiring animated pigs. I have all morning to make them...

Bugs

Very frustrating. There you are, happily getting on with a routine, albeit one that doesn't involve much beyond the bathroom and the PSP, and a staphylococcus cocks it up. One of my pins has become infected again, and for some reason, this time it has been very, very sore. In fact, I ended up staying in bed yesterday, because if I moved my leg from the one place it seemed content, the pain was enough to make me shout involuntarily. Not bad for a bug that apparently happily resides up our noses most of the time anyway, and is normally fairly content with just that. Apparently, the bugs resemble clusters of grapes under a microscope. The thought of staphylococcus viniculture kept me amused for a second or two, but not as amused as a good claret would have done.

Think about having a tender boil just below your knee. Then imagine sticking a nail through it. And leaving it there. And attaching a weight. I suppose it was always going to hurt.

The most frustrating thing has been that my period of immobility clashed with my monthly outpatient's appointment, at which I was hoping to get some news about a release date. Bugger. I now have to wait another 2 1/2 weeks. It is a frustrating feature of the NHS that once you have left hospital, you operate in a kind of limbo that is policed by receptionists jealously gaurding the diaries of the medical professionals you wish to see. St. George's is a great hospital. I was extremely well looked after by the team there, and owe them a huge amount. When I phoned the ward this week, nearing the end of my tether with pain, a nurse told me to take Nurofen, or phone my GP. The harsh fact is; once you have left, you are out of the loop. At least I have finally managed to crack the Fort Knox that is the GP's surgery, and managed to be seen without waiting a week to catch a taxi for 1/2mile in order to climb two flights of stairs so that I can finally see a doctor (the suggestion of the receptionist). So I phoned the GP. And got some better pain killers. Which have worked. So I suppose I shouldn't be moaning. It's just that stuck in a nest, the active mind is desperate for more information about your condition, and it's difficult to be content with the fact that it is simply an infection that should clear up with Penicillin and some strong aspirin. So it was back to the web, and researching the enemy...

Staphylococci. Tricky by name, tricky by nature. Apparently, these little bugs generally live on the skin, but get a little over-excited when they sense weakness. Pins impaled through the leg are therefore pretty attractive to the average Staphylococcus. Their work then produces inflamation, necrosis of the surrounding tissue (best not to dwell on this), and pus. You do have to be a little careful. They can infect the bone, which would be bad news. If they get really feisty, they can cause septicemia, which can kill. This is the sort of consideration that we have to bear in mind with William, who has had a close call of this nature. In my case, at least all they are doing is causing pain. And pus. I have a sneaky suspicion, in fact, that these are the little blighters that are behind spotty noses. I shall therefore take particular pleasure next time I take on a spot. I shall view it as personal revenge.

learning a new language

Given the job that I do, being able to operate in another language is a very useful skill. Unfortunately, the nature of being housebound in a small family home means that repeating the recitations of Herr Linguaphone will have to be put off for another occasion. Anyway, as we all know, the only really effective way to learn a language is to be immersed in it. For this reason, I have been afforded the unique opportunity to learn toddler.

The difficulties of this can be easily illustrated by two of William's favourite phrases - "Bee bee bum" and "Ber bee bum". The experienced toddler speaker will, of course, recognise these utterances as "PC Plum" and "Bertie Bus" respectively. Only hours of sofa bound observation have enabled me to pick up the skills required to interpret this. On the plus side, William does tend to stick to familiar topics - facilitating my own learning through context. "Dadoot" can only ever really mean "Thomas", both because this forms 50% of his conversation, and because it is often declaimed whilst waving a Thomas toy. More abstract ideas are trickier. We are trying to improve everybody's chances of knowing what on Earth he's talking about by teaching him some sign language. Thus "Peet", and a hand up to the mouth, means "Please". This early politeness training can backfire. How can you reward a 2 year old for asking nicely when he is repeating "Peet" with increasing urgency, and motioning desperately for you to hand him a bread knife? Other signs are more entertaining. Shaping a mane and a pair of paws enables you to sign 'lion". Or "Dyoot" in William speak. "Manit," is the word most often heard around the house. It means 'nappy'. Naturally.

The real joy of learning toddler is that it is a two way process. William is an excellent mimic. It took me about 1.5secs to teach him to say the word 'bugger'. It will take me a lifetime to try and stop him saying it.

Nesting

Nesting is an important part of being sofa-bound. It is normally important to the householder that shelves look neat, and are populated with impressive looking books, or attractively draped with nic-nacs. My own bookshelves sport a variety of candle ephemera and carved wooden odities. However, what use is a nic-nac when you're sat next to it for twelve hours? And just how fascinating is that coffee table book on Bauhaus architecture after a few moments of appreciating its glossy elegance?

Sarah has generally been unimpressed with my nesting activity, as it inevitably 'makes the place look untidy'. This is where the atavistic mammalian burrowing skills come in. There is hardly a spare square millimetre underneath my corner of the sofa or shelves. The ability of an object to squeeze into such a nook or cranny is part of the selection criteria for nest inclusion. Mostly, however, the key criteria is comfort.

Anybody who has spent time in hospital will be familiar with the nest. Everything has to be within reach at hospital, especially if you wish to retain enough self-respect to avoid ringing the nurse call bell every time you need something to hand. There are few more disheartening things than seeing your half-read paperback where your last visitor left it - stuck out of reach underneath the 'sitting-out chair'. Actually, about the only thing that is more disheartening is facing the same dilemma with an empty wee bottle...

Once at home, the nest performs the same function. There are important items - drugs, tissues, creams, dressings etc. There are functional items - a bag for rubbish, a mobile phone to ring for help in case of sanity failure, a sweater in case it gets cold. Then there are necessities. A portable games console. A computer with internet access. A supply of chocolate. And, this is very important, the remote control for the television. Absolutely key to the activity of nesting, is retaining control of this piece of equipment as far as possible, or else you will spend your entire convalescence watching a combination of screeching children's TV presenters in 2D primary coloured sets, and programmes about Big Brother contestants past and present. Try your hardest not to get run over during Big Brother season. I failed in this key task.

The last feature of the nest is to include enough revolting items to discourage speculative ferretting by other household members. A bottle full of stale wee should do it. And some overflowing tissues. This should protect the PSP and chocolate stash...

blegspot

I obviously chose the address 'blegspot.blogspot' for comedy linguistic effect. I've now looked up 'blegspot' in Google. It links to a site about STDs and genital warts. Curse that time spent surfing...

Doing research

This is the reason for my enforced sofa habitation. If they could provide transport to the studios, I would happily let the BBC use my leg as a prop in one of their medical dramas (A future post on the subject of vegetating in front of crap TV will soon be forthcoming...). This picture was taken by my goulish mother. Goodness only knows what she planned to do with it. However, it has proved very useful in generally impressing my friends, may be quite useful if I decide to get litigious with the driver who chose to run me over, and should certainly be forwarded to the bumper design team at BMW.

When you are daily presented with such a medical curiousity as this - when it lurks under the duvet every morning, waiting to remind you that it will be a while before you are once again tripping the light fantastic - one of your first tasks as sofa detective is to research your condition. In fact, as soon as I established my laptop as part of my nest, I was googling away. It took a while to finalise the exact spelling of 'ilizarov' and 'fasciotomy', but I got there in the end. And there were 33,000 listings for ilizarov frame alone. And an external fixator for sale on ebay. I couldn't tell if it was used or not.

So, what have I found out? Firstly, that the website for the 'ilizarov supporters' group' was clearly set up by somebody with too much time on their hands (funny that!), but with little in the way of design flair. Secondly, that people with horrible looking injuries are quite happy to show pictures on the world wide web. (I refer you to the picture above.) And thirdly, that a dictionary and fairly active brain will still prove hopelessly inadequate whilst looking at specialist medical sites.

There is, I discover, a danger with this form of research. My consultant is the sort of breezy doctor who likes to flit through an orthopaedic ward giving good news and encouraging prognosises. (Prognosisi?). He told me on day one, that I would likely be looking at wearing my frame for three months. I haven't been told any other potential date for parole, so am clinging onto mid-October as the date when my life will begin again. The web, however, tells me that the average time for wearing an Ilizarov frame is 16 months. Equally, I am still hobbling along on my crutches, dreading stairs, and hurting a good deal if I go any further than the kitchen. There are pictures on the web of people wearing these frames playing cricket for God's sake. I couldn't even do that before I broke my leg. So, the lesson is that either my doctor should be telling me more, or I should be researching less. Which is unlikely when you've got time on your hands, and you're spending your day two feet away from an intriguing looking science experiment below your knee...

So. Things I've found out.

1. An important complication to watch out for is compartment syndrome. This is a condition when the muscular compartments of your limb swell out of control, and can lead to the extremity going a pretty colour and falling off. Alternatively, according to the web, 'compartment syndrome has been defined as an elevation of the interstitial pressure in a closed osteofascial compartment resulting in microvascular compromise'. You see? I had/have compartment syndrome. It's why there are two cuts on my calf, and why I still appear to be borrowing my lower leg from an Austrian body builder, while the rest of my lower limbs are still of the fashionable skinny Englishman variety. I can already vouch for the fact that it hurts a lot. Good to see it clarified on the great web guru though. I couldn't discover online just how my leg planned to set about deflating. I guess I'll have to ask my doctor that one.

2. Ilizarov frames were invented by a Russian doctor after he became disenchanted with the number of limbs he was being forced to amputate. He alledgedly experimented with bicycle spokes. Devotees think they are an elegant and reliable solution to diffficult fractures. Dr Roger Atkins of the Bristol Royal Infirmary also points out that they don't cause the same infuriating itching that plaster casts do. I wonder if Dr Atkins would prefer an itch himself, or to nail 6kg of metal to his calf. Twat.

3. People often elect to have these frames fitted. Why?

4. Fasciotomies are cuts made through the muscle compartment walls in order to allow room for swelling. For a week, I could have seen my own calf muscles if the killjoys at St. George's hadn't have kept my leg dressed. Still, if you look closely enough at the above photo, you can still get a good idea... Mine are now covered by split skin grafts. Some hospitals wait for your limb to deflate, then close these wounds. I don't know what the plastic Drs at George's have planned, as they are institutionally reclusive. Odd really. If I were a plastic surgeon, I would give myself devastatingly good looks, then party. Is it possible to give yourself a nose job? I couldn't find this out on Google.

5. The scar on my forehead should fade, especially if I apply vitamin E cream. This was a titbit that was also imparted my the company manager at work. I have been using Sarah's stretch mark cream. Plastic surgery can offer little for a scar like mine. I just have to frown a lot in order to make my wrinkles fit in...

6. They put frames on pet dogs. We presume in America.