Spam. Time to end it all.

Finally somebody has left a comment on my blog, and it's SPAM! Not content with leaving an average of 60 emails a day trying to sell me cheap shares and performance enhancers for my nether regions, the bastards have started spamming my blog. Well, Mr/s Happysky1, or whatever you choose to call yourself, you have not made me happy, and I would be delighted if you shoved whatever it is you're trying to sell where the light of the sky is never seen. Except, of course, you're not reading this because you are some sort of 'webbot' created by a social misfit in California who has taken a few minutes away from attending to his rampaging acne to ruin the rest of our lives by wasting our time with e-bollocks. So I guess I'm ranting to myself, again.

Meanwhile, William has seen the way that the world is going, and has decided to take the necessary steps. I can't say I blame him. I hobbled in to see him and Sarah at the Chelsea and Westminster this afternoon, and there seems no immediate release date in sight. He had an interesting test today involving watching a flashing light whilst wearing a variety of electrodes and a net bag on his head. No wonder the poor boy seems to have a diminishing grasp of things, and is clinging to dear life to the unchanging certainties of his Thomas DVDs.

On the way back, I changed bus at Clapham Junction, and decided to wander up and have a look at the fateful junction where I met my BMW shaped nemesis. Perhaps I was hoping that I would have some flash of memory to replace the gaping void that still remains. Nothing. None of those Hollywood style flashbacks. Just a vague sense that I looked a bit silly loitering by the crossing without any clear intention of actually crossing the road. Ironically, it did cause passing motorists to slow down a little. I hope I get to see the 3rd party witness statements at some point, because it really is the oddest sensation, having such a life-changing experience without remembering a single thing about it. Although, of course, at my 18th, 21st and 30th birthdays, I did attempt to achieve the same effect with alcohol. Not to mention my wedding. And every Christmas.

Democracy

My first blog from my own flat! It’s taken the best part of six months, but the effects of a heavy rainstorm in Tooting have finally been counteracted. Bring on global warming, I say. And a huge thank you to my family for doing their best to sort it out, in the face of almost overwhelming incompetence and delay from those who were paid to sort it out. Unfortunately, my dreams of spending quality time here watching James Bond DVDs have been somewhat spoiled by the burglars having stolen half of them. And all of my other DVDs. And a good deal of my CDs. So I suppose when I have the ability to carry a shopping bag, I can look forward to some fun hours spent in HMV.

The up-sides to spending the night in my flat include a bathroom on the same floor as the sofa and the bed. The significant down-side is that I wouldn’t be here were it not for the fact that it is the domestic arrangements surrounding William’s latest hospital stay that have made it a sensible option. Wills is basically well in himself, but has been quite knocked back by this latest line infection, which has proved very difficult to shift. We discovered yesterday that he had lost 1.5kg, which makes him easier to pick up, but has very little else to recommend it. All of this, and the extraordinary variety of flora and fauna that he has managed to grow in his gut, has meant that he has been transferred to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, where he spent five months in 2005/6. Clearly realising the significance of this, and fearing the worst in terms of his limited stocks of Thomas toys, William has reacted by attempting to get the two engines Percy and Emily to produce offspring, as the attached photo shows.

Ironically, given the fact that William is currently proving to the world just how dependent he is on the medical profession, I spent two hours this afternoon in a ‘public meeting’ with Croydon council, listening to them attempt to convince us that the shutting of the special nursery where he was headed will be offset by their investment in new ‘Children’s Centres’. These will, we are told, meet William’s needs, and be ‘inclusive’. Despite the fact that they had no idea how they might provide the nurse with central line training that William needs at all times. And it was glorious to see local democracy in action. We had the opportunity to moan, and to change nothing. It was entirely clear that the policy was crisis driven, solving a problem elsewhere in their education provision by removing a special nursery provision that they feel less of a legal obligation to supply. Nursery provision that was part of a hugely successful special school with medical facilities and staff on supply, now completely wiped out with a vague idea of trying to match it elsewhere in normal nurseries through ‘staff training’. Dreadful. This, sadly, will run and run. And nothing was clarified by the endless upset ramblings of one garrulous father who had a completely understandable axe to grind, but insisted on doing it without ever really getting to the point. I hobbled off afterwards in a state of some depression and fear that the Croydon Education Department are sufficiently rubbish to take one of their few schools (albeit a special school) that has received unmitigated praise from Ofsted, and set about ruining it. My opinion of a Croydon education was not improved when my hobble home was interrupted by a schoolgirl in uniform asking me if I could go into a shop and buy some fags for her. I mean, she didn’t even say please…

Leggy shot

It occurs to me that there are a lot of quite unpleasant pictures of legs on this blog. Here is something to redress the balance a little...

New leg

My new leg can be seen to the right. I received a very kind email from the wardrobe department of Glyndebourne, commiserating with my plight, and incidentally letting on that the new production of Macbeth this year will be be-kilted. On reflection, I think it is better that my bionic leg’s stage debut is thus delayed.

Gunning Ward at St. George’s managed to turn me round in three days, which, given that my operation was delayed by eighteen hours, was pretty impressive. I was in quite a hurry to leave, which may have been something to do with my near bedfellows. The chap to my right could have defined the word irascible – after about half an hour I was ready to disconnect his drip, and I suspect I was not alone. Funny how his buzzer never seemed to be responded to. Meanwhile, the chap opposite seemed intrigued by the fact that you couldn’t remember anything that happened under general anaesthetic. He also offered the sage remark that “Reality’s not really real anyway is it? That’s what I think.’ Frankly, I couldn’t be bothered to explore the possibility that he might have actually thought about this, and put it down to the morphine and a diet of daytime TV. As I’d only been given two paracetemol and a cup of tea after my operation, I suppose I was feeling both grumpy and superior – a dangerous combination.

As my operation had been delayed, I was put first on the ‘trauma list’ for Wednesday. This meant that I spent some time outside the theatre, waiting for the morning cleaners to do their bit, and for the surgeons to make sure that they didn’t have any dying patients in A&E who needed doing first. This enabled me to strike up a fascinating discussion with an attractive student nurse who had given up a lucrative career in IT for a job in the NHS. Her great ambition was to become a senior nurse in gynaecology. The possibilities of this conversation should have been endless, but were sadly interrupted by a dose of anaesthetic and the prospect of her having to manhandle my knackered limb on the operating table. On top of that, I had enjoyed a fairly vicious curry the night before, and suspect that I wouldn’t have been smelling too good on the slab. How glad I am that I am happily attached, as my recent encounters with members of the opposite sex can only ever have been doomed.

So, it’s back to my daily diet of ‘pin care’, walking around to a muted, yet collective intake of breath from passers-by, constant dull pain, and waiting for the next infection to strike. I absolutely maintain my earlier claim that a plaster cast is considerably more comfortable than an external fixator. However, there are clear advantages to my new cyber leg. I can scratch. I had a shower this morning. Glorious. And, with a bit of time and physiotherapy, I reckon I can safely drive. Which is a huge step forward. And the driver whose liberal interpretation of the Highway Code landed me in this state is due in the dock today, where he can decide his plea. So I guess, if all else fails, now that I can consider driving again, there’s always the possibility of straightforward revenge…!

The Cyberman returns

Having basically organised my bed myself, I can confirm that I'm off to George's tomorrow to have some more metalwork fitted. I trust George's a good deal in all things medical. They have saved the life of two members of my family, and did a pretty good job on me. However, in the field of organisation, they leave a good deal to be desired. The Orthopaedic admissions co-ordinator deserves a mention in dispatches. I am, I believe, an Orthopaedic admission. Her attempts to co-ordinate me stretched as far as failing to let me know that I was coming in, failing to answer the phone for hours on end, and then, after accidentally answering the phone, denying all knowledge, and telling me to phone the bed manager. Who, sportingly, whilst admitting that this was clearly the Orthopaedic admission co-ordinator's job, said that she would help me out if I phoned back having tried to track down my own surgeon. Etc. Etc. I phoned PALS - the patient liason people - as a last resort at 3 o'clock on Friday afternoon, to be met with an answerphone declaring that they shut at 5. To be fair, they phoned back at 4.30 in order to confirm that they couldn't do anything until Monday morning as everybody went home at 4.30 on Friday. Who says the NHS lacks management?

In the meantime, Wills is still in hospital, and Dad is going in for tests on Wednesday. On that day, all three generations of the Hopwood family will be in the hands of the NHS, so I guess I shouldn't complain. especially as I'm still behind with my tax bill.

At least this time my admission is a little more planned than it was when Mr. BMW driver thoughtfully decided to organise my diary for a year or two. I can therefore pack something a little more useful than the unused return ticket, uncharged mobile and spotty hanky that I had in my pockets the last time. This time I shall add a toothbrush to the above list.

I have no idea how long my stay shall be, or what issues surround this new piece of ironmongery. I'm hoping I don't have to sign up to BUPA in order to find out. However, it shouldn't be too long, and I anticipate watching Saturday's football focus at home, contemplating my new robotic broken leg whilst watching Owen Hargreaves contemplate a £20million signing to Man Utd only four months after breaking his.

Hopefully I will be able to walk to my appointment tomorrow. Black ice may be an issue. I'm going to have to pack my masonic trousers again too, though a bare calf will be a bit chilly in the current climate. At least I can look forward to a good scratch at last.

More cyber photos will follow.

*#*!@#*!!!!

As I read the description of this blog under the title, I realise that it is no longer accurate. I am no longer really contemplating my navel, and I am no longer slave to a piece of medical technology. Fortunately, all shall be rectified, as I am going back to St. George's next week to have another frame fitted. Joy. My surgeon's appointment yesterday did not, you may imagine, go to plan. In fact, it wasn't even an appointment with my surgeon, as he seemed to be keeping his head down, and relayed the good news via his colleague, whilst he sat in an office ten yards away from me. Which news, given the fact that I had no x-ray, and that the desicion was clearly based on my examination four weeks ago, could have been delivered a month sooner. Or even by phone. I guess that consideration and a bedside manner only come with the BUPA package.

Still, the good news is that the plan is not to use another Ilizarov frame, but to opt for something a little less intrusive. My web research has turned up the likelihood of this being something like an 'Orthofix' rod. Doubtless I shall be proved wrong in this assumption, but these are assumptions that you have to make in the vacuum left by an Orthopaedic surgeon who is too busy to talk you through it himself. At least I got some straight answers from his colleague as to how long it's likely to be before I can wear trousers and a pair of shoes again. And the answer is - three months at the most optimistic. So that's Madam Butterfly and Glyndebourne out of the window. And my career is therefore starting to look a little shaky on its foundations. In order to make a comeback, it's generally assumed that you have already established a career. I'm not sure where I stand, given that I was still very much in the business of trying to establish it. The answer may have to lie in a hair transplant and some healthy fiction regarding my date of birth. Anyway, whilst thoroughly cheesed off with the whole business, I chose to have my leg temporarily replastered in purple. Wikipedia gives a list of possible connotations here. Take your pick.



Tonbridge seem happy to keep me on though. I present a very useful solution to their temporary staffing difficulties, and so my colleagues have been refreshingly honest in their responses - all of which have been couched in terms of commiserating about my news, whilst being delighted that I'm hanging around. It is, of course, nice to feel wanted. It will be interesting to see what the younger boys make of my exterior metalwork though. If only I were teaching in a primary school, then I could convince them that I was a death robot, and would be looking forward to months of peace and quiet.



I justify banging on about my leg in this blog by the fact that it is the blog's subject, and so establishing a narrative focus is a good thing. However, it does feel a little selfish to be airing concerns about my leg when William is enduring another hospital stay brought about by another life-threatening line infection. He was rushed to Mayday casualty on Monday night, where it took all of the rhetorical powers of Sarah and me to persuade them that it was almost certainly a line infection, and should be treated as such. My opinion of the medical profession is not riding high at the moment. Sarah will doubtless cover the details in her blog, but it was quite alarming this time, as the poor little blighter has been really quiet and listless - not a good sign for William - and has peaked at a temperature of 40c. I was convinced last night that he was on the mend, as he was endlessly quoting Thomas the Tank Engine episodes even as he was drifting off to sleep, but he has been rough again today. He managed to formulate the sentence, 'I want to go home!' yesterday, and he couldn't have found a better way to tug at the heartstrings if he taken a seven year course in cardiac surgery. Except, of course, that such a medical qualification would be unlikely to equip him in any way for an act of sensitivity.

Rulers

A trip to my flat in Tooting today, and at last I managed to coincide with a workman sorting the place out. Sadly, the carpenter had ‘phoned in sick’, but at least there was a painter there, and he appeared to be doing some painting, which was even more gratifying. I was able to spend ten minutes trawling through his colour chart in order to select roughly the same colours that were on the wall in the first place. He had been putting off his arrival, as he had chosen to disbelieve the plasterer who had confidently predicted that the floor screed would be dry overnight. Unfortunately, I had fallen for this line, and so my floor is now covered in crutch prints and skid marks. I guess it’s good to have some souvenirs of 2006 apart from the hideous scarring. As I left, I noted that somebody had festively chosen to lob their balding, decrepit Christmas tree into my front yard. One last act of goodwill, I suppose.

With any luck, the flat will be just about finished in time for my return to full time work, so gloriously failing in its primary function of providing an opportunity for child-free r&r when I have some free time. At least when I get to potentially spend some time there, it will be barbeque season, and I may have both hands free to flip the burgers. Maybe I should keep the Christmas tree; as fuel.

On my way back from Tooting, I stopped off to take advantage of WH Smith’s 2 for the price of 3 offer on flexible rulers. This followed an unfortunate episode when, during a particularly frantic scratching episode, I very nearly lost half a ruler down my cast. It was not a conversation with the cast nurse that I predicted relishing, although I bet they find all sorts down people’s legs. Remote controls, false teeth, gas bills. That sort of thing. The scratching is still a wonderful pastime, although there is the oddest sensation provided by the fact that sections of my leg still have no nerve sensation. Very bizarre.

William got back from hospital on Friday, with new tubing, and a decent helping of beans. He was pleased to be back, surrounded by his family and, more importantly, his Christmas Thomases. He spent the weekend deciding which episode of his Thomas DVD he was going to watch. ‘Bye-bye Percy run away...Hello Dadoot and Gordin!’ Repeat ad nauseam. His sisters, meanwhile, were preparing an elaborate dance routine for us. There were the predictable artistic differences, but they had fun, and it was a real insight into why the girls at those eighties discos of my childhood seemed ready primed with dance routines, whilst we boys just stood around, awkwardly plunging our hands into bowls of Cheesy Wotsits. Teenage-hood is just around the corner for Hope. She spent tea-time this evening on the subject of sex education. I made my excuses, and ate my apple strudel in the next room. I must admit that whilst it is, of course, life affirming to be surrounded by the enthusiasm of youth, it will be a relief to have at least some adult company when I go back to my temporary teaching job. And if all goes according to plan, my proper job beckons. Perhaps it is tempting fate a little to be going for a costume fitting for Madam Butterfly next Tuesday afternoon, when I’m seeing my consultant in the morning, and am still not allowed to fully weight bear. However, I’m told that the costume is a pair of ‘floaty trousers’, so perhaps I could even get away with a cast and pair of bamboo crutches.

2007 so far

2006 had one last sting in the tail - my flat was burgled on New Year's Eve. Fortunately, although the flooding had meant that my parents had thoughtfully boxed and giftwrapped all of my worldy goods for easy transferral to an unmarked van, the little scrots concerned seemed keener to simply scatter everything over the floor and leave me guessing as to what they had taken. If they have a sense of humour, they will have taken random kitchen implements that I will be spending months searching for, in the apparently certain knowledge that it wouldn't have been stolen as nobody would want to steal a zester. I doubt they have a sense of humour. At last this was some misfortune that I could really properly blame on somebody. The girls may have heard some choice words about how I intended to fricasee some reproductive organs. I'm trusting it happened on New Year's Eve 2006, as this will still allow 2007 to show some improvement. And it's so far so good. We're even taking some wickets in Sydney.

In the absence of real cash, I persuaded the family en masse to come shopping with me so that I could ask for some friendly advice on how to spend my Marks and Spencer's vouchers. It was on the strict understanding that I would not be left looking after the children whilst Sarah looked at knickers. In the spirit of taking me at my word, Sarah in fact left me looking after the children whilst she looked at sports bras. The only significant injury sustained during my tenure of the girls was a blow to Ellie's head from a dumbell wielded by Hope, so it was quite a successful afternoon from that point of view. William goes into hospital tomorrow, leaving me in charge of the girls for at least two days, so I shall be checking that the first aid box is adequately stocked. We did finally make it to Marks and Spencer's. Sarah spent half of my vouchers on a sports bra, and guffawed at my interest in a Harris Tweed jacket. Still, it means that Sarah gave me cash instead, so I shall shortly be parading my latest loud shirt from the shelves of TKMaxx, where at least I feel on safe ground. I might go there on my own though.

My leg is still there. I have fashioned an 'under-cast scratcher' from a plastic ruler, melting a pointed ridge into one end. This has made for some very pleasant hours. William caught me scratching yesterday, and decided he wanted a go too. It was at least an improvement on his usual game of knocking my crutches over because he enjoys the clattering noise. I shall miss him for the next few days, and Sarah too. I shall be able to pop over to the flat though, as the builders are there, finally sorting things out. I did try and get in yesterday, but after an hour and a half on the bus, and arriving with a swollen bladder, I opened the now rather rickety door to see that the floor had been screeded, and so I was going no further. What a shame it hadn't been done on New Year's Eve. We could have followed the cement footprints to wherever the burglars are hanging out, wondering what to do with their haul of idiosyncratic kitchen implements.