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.