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.