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I had blog-off in something of a hurry last time, as William was on the rampage. As it is now the 29th March, there is an evident implication that he has been on the rampage for seven days. This may well be true, but there has been time for some other things as well. Like my birthday. When I watched docilely by, whilst Hope and Ellie rummaged through my cards, and professed how delighted I should be with the fudge that I knew would disappear within hours unless I put it under lock and key. I thought back to the Walnut Whips I had bought for dad back in the latter years of the last millennium. There had to be a reason why he declared his desire for such an apparently revolting confection. I think I’ve now worked it out. And the girls haven’t found the chocolate mango pieces that Lindsey bought me. Though I may have made a tactical error putting them in Sarah’s bedroom.

Still, I managed to smuggle Sarah out for the evening, as Margaret, William’s nurse, stepped into the breach, and took on babysitting duties all night. Sadly, the Milne family’s babysitting needs are not able to be met by a pubescent girl acting out her maternal fantasies by sounding a little stern, phoning her boyfriend for three hours and collecting a tenner at the end of the night. The ability to access a Hickman line comes as a pre-requisite, as does the ability to spot any potentially life-threatening infection. So William justified Margaret’s qualifications by spiking a temperature the next morning. Not the news you are looking for as you blearily contemplate dawn’s rays through a Guinness hangover. He is not, thankfully, very ill, but William is now back in hospital. A current estimate of the time he has spent at home in 2007 is running at two and a half weeks.

This all means that I am in charge of the family home. Highlights of the last time this happened included my applying an Elastoplast to a cut head that the school later decided required a trip to casualty, and Ellie relieving herself in the street. “Then I realised I need a poo.” I chose the path of least resistance last night, and took the girls for a takeaway pizza. Experience has shown that this can also solve the inevitable morning ‘what can we have in our sandwiches?’ crisis. Surrogate Fatherhood has come naturally to me. But doesn’t extend far enough for me to have dealt favourably with Hope’s expectation that I would iron her school shirt this morning. Frankly, as I needed a machete to cut my way into their bedroom this morning, and as I know that the offending article was somewhere on the floor, she was lucky it hadn’t turned into compost.

So, a moment of repose this morning. The girls are at school. Sarah is with William at the Mayday, and I am waiting for a delivery of some newsletters for the charity that Sarah runs. There is a slight frisson even to this, though, as I typeset them, and have only a little idea of what I am doing with a DTP program. And people are rather more willing to forgive you mistakes when you are editing school magazines. You can blame spelling mistakes on the schoolboys.

Dynamised!

This is the bolt that was unscrewed from my frame last week. Its removal means that I have been 'dynamised'. I am doing my best to live up to this description, and am feeling as dynamic as possible. Admittedly, my current sensations of dynamism are probably more to do with the fact that it is the end of term at Tonbridge. However, it is now true that there is a literal 'spring in my step'. Groan.

Encouragingly, my surgeon now feels that he can be pretty honest with me. I'm guessing my x-rays must be looking like a familiar family photo album by now. Rather less encouragingly, his more relaxed, 'chummy' style manifested itself by his looming over my leg at my last appointment, whilst vouchsafing the opinion that my x-rays were such a mess that he couldn't really tell what was going on, and that it was anyone's guess as to whether he should take the bolt out. When we agreed that it would probably be a safe bet, it was left to his registrar to do the mechanics. A nurse brought in a selection of toolboxes, and the doctor started rummaging through them looking for all the world as if he was going to do some plumbing. Why an orthopaedic outpatient's department should have a 1 1/2" spanner is a mystery that I was unable to solve. I suspected it was a form of emergency anasthaetic.

In my new, dynamised self, I was able to bounce along to a photographer last Thursday to have my injuries photographed for my solicitor. It must be quite a strange reversal of roles for a photographer to make part of his living through ensuring that his models look as bad as possible. I was entirely confused as to whether I should be smiling for the camera, or looking as miserable as I could. And the lighting had to be just right to properly capture my facial scarring at its most grusome. The leg was less of a problem. Thoughtfully, the photographer remarked that it was the worst injury he'd yet had to photograph. Which, together with the St. George's Registrar's opinion that my x-rays are amongst the worst he has ever seen, has made me feel quite special. I admit to having felt even more special when I had to take my trousers off in a photographic studio though. I know some might consider it sordid, but early on in a modelling career, you have to take whatever's available.

More to follow. William's on the rampage.

Blogrot

It has been a little while since I last posted, and, whilst the creative juices have been flowing steadily - in fact more than usual, as I have invested in a new coffee machine - I have been frustrated in my postings by 'technical difficulties'. In fact, this will effectively be a blind posting, as I can see to write it, but the server at Tonbridge School does not see fit to let me view the finished article. There could be several intriguing reasons for this. Perhaps the many leggy photos adorning this site, and the resulting high number of flesh coloured pixels have fallen foul of the school's porn sensor. Or Censor? Maybe Blogger.com is a banned site in case the boys take it into their heads to become libellous. Though this would require them to spend time writing - not a thing I have found them all inclined to do. Or, and this is particularly intriguing, it could be something to do with the two comments on my last post that I know are there, but the school server is not allowing me to read. Have my pupils discovered the blog, and started writing revenge-fuelled home truths? (It was parents' evening a week ago.) Is it more spam, encouraging a discretion-free, dictatorial filter to kick in? Or is somebody getting saucy?

If it wasn't enough that the Tonbridge server is being difficult, the internet in Tooting has become a distant dream. I foolishly thought that I should try Orange as a provider, as I already pay them a huge amount of money, and it seemed a good deal. Three weeks later, I have no internet access, I've spent approximately six hours on the phone to various robotic voices, and I'm seriously considering becoming the next mail-bomber. When I finally decided, a week ago, to cancel the order, as it was plain that it wouldn't work, a nice man at Orange told me it was my fault as I should have checked to see if their broadband worked with a Mac. Since then, my landline has broken down completely, and BT have left me a note saying that I should contact them to re-arrange an engineer to fix the problem. But left no contact number. Perhaps they have seen the light, and don't have a phone? At least then they would save themselves the indignity of being seen standing in the middle of a car-park raving insanely at a tape-recorder telling them for twenty minutes that 'your call is important to us'. If it was important, why not employ a person to answer the phone?

William is still in hospital. They are tinkering with the recipe of his drip feed, which is a long and tedious process. He has managed about two weeks at home in 2007. In the meantime, we received an update latter from his surgeon, suggesting that he should be assessed at Birmingham Children's Hospital, where they are leading experts in all things gut-related. More alarmingly, he detailed the various different ways in which he feared that William might meet his premature 'demise'. Once again, the medical lexicon came to the fore. House sparrows are suffering a gradual demise. The wearing of trilbies has suffered a demise. The use of dried egg in cookery. Suffering a demise. But William? I suppose there's no way of putting it nicely. 'These are the ways in which your son may eventually snuff it?'

Whilst there is no immediate prospect of getting any sort of recompense from the Maker for his error in William's assembly, or from Orange for their error in thinking they could turn the future anything other than a shade of rage-induced red, I do hope now to get some satisfaction from the chap who turned my leg into a Meccano set. I saw my lawyer last week, and he struck me as a man who knew his business, and would make the process as painless and fair as possible. And he had read the blog, thus making him a very lovely chap. The flip side of this, of course, is that in due time, the other side may do some web-based research too. And they have bought time, by denying fault, despite the fact that the driver pleaded guilty to driving without due care. Could they counter-sue for libel if I called their client a BMW-wielding, limb-destroying, and now apparently schizophrenic delusional? Let's see.

There are no photos in this blog, not least as I think my camera was one of the victims of the break-in at New Year. I am now at the point of being able to claim for what I know has been lost. As the burglars left only my classical CDs behind, and pinched every piece of recorded music that was either Jazz or involved a drum kit, it seems that the saddest thing that they stole was what was left of my 'cool'. Is it possible to claim for this? How much would it be worth? Could I ever prove that I had it in the first place? And if there are any phantom blog commentators out there, leaving mysterious messages that I can't read - that's a rhetorical question.