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…!