Daytime tv

Daytime television gold. For moments like this, it is surely even worth being patronised by adverts recognising your invalid debtor status. Yesterday and today, Diagnosis Murder met Matlock in a glorious moment of synergy. It was beautiful to behold. I could only imagine the moment at the Beverly Hills golf club when the two old pros chatted over an exotic salad, and decided to indulge themselves in this way. But thank goodness they did, as it doubtless brightened up the life of more than one sofa squatter.

In fact, I can’t say I’ve ever seen Matlock, but I knew it must have been a significant moment, as Dick van Dyke first addressed the back of the guest star’s head, before he slowly turned to an almost audible drumroll. The scene was Shakespearian in scope, and must have caused many a twinkie to drop from the shocked fingers of a corpulent American TV addict. Fortunately for me, the doorbell went halfway through the first episode, and my friends Tim and Emily arrived, bearing jam tarts. Which I’m sure are nicer than ‘twinkies’, whatever they are.

Emily is nine months and a few days pregnant. Her normal good company was enhanced by the fact that she, too, has spent a good deal of time on the sofa recently. We were able to swap stories about backache caused by being forced to sleep in one position all night. A moment of empathy I can’t say I had ever envisaged. As a student, I had spent many an hour with Tim doing very little during the hours of daylight, but he is clearly less accustomed to advanced loafing now. I don’t think the thought of a Diagnosis Murder/Matlock love-in was in any way going to win him over, though I was proud to hear that he had spent a good deal of his new found time battering on the doors of bureaucracy, so he is clearly learning quickly. Emily’s decision to turn to baking jam tarts is possibly a boredom-avoidance tactic that I shall eschew. One-legged baking is a skill I feel I can probably manage without.

At least I was able to watch today’s second part uninterrupted. Which was a shame. I’m hanging out for the next great daytime tv event though. Perhaps Raymond Burr hurtling out of control as he seeks to flee a white balloon in a Prisoner/Ironside crossover. Or Top Gear meets Traffic Cops.

Croydon's latest road user

Having blogged on the state of Croydon's road users, I thought I should introduce the most recent wheeled danger to the tarmac of South London. William has a new push chair. It is, in fact, a proper wheel chair, and he is being encouraged to propel himself. So far, he has taken most delight in his ability to operate the brakes... Be very afraid!

Fast cars

This is my dream car. A Caterham Seven. I have always been determined to own a sports car before I lost all my hair, and looked like the sort of sad, mid-life crisis wracked male who is generally the only sort of person who can afford one. The last car I actually owned was a Renault 5. And my hairline is rapidly receding past the equinox.

I should at least be a good insurance bet. After the age of 17, I have never made a claim. I think I am a safe driver. Which is a little difficult to square with wanting a car that is known for its track performance. I have, however, always done my best to avoid breaking pedestrians' legs. Which is more than some drivers I have encountered. I know that insurance companies don't like insuring musicians though. I think they imagine that we all pile out of gigs in a drug-induced frenzy, wild on tequila and Mojitos, and impressing the groupies on our arms. I can't say that this accurately describes my experiences of leaving such glorious venues as the Coliseum in Aberdare, glad to have finished the twenty fourth performance of the Barber of Seville, and having polished off a night’s work with a cup of tea.

All of which brings me to my point. My brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law came around yesterday for a cup of tea. He is a difficult brother for the penniless car enthusiast to have, as his job involves testing new cars. He is about to start work on a new TVR, which is apparently capable of 0-60 in under 4 seconds. I don’t think I actually went visibly green with envy… It at least meant that he could help get me to the park with the kids, as getting there and back is still a little too far on crutches, and Sarah finds using the wheelchair too hefty.

On route, we were able to encounter the weekend road users of Croydon. Oh dear. Having given up a (minor) smoking habit, I had always managed to avoid becoming one of those annoying anti-smoking vigilantes. The same level of post-trauma understanding does not seem to distinguish my attitude after having been flattened by an RTA. It is particularly galling to see somebody safely cross the road through the tried and tested method of holding out their hand to stop traffic, whilst stepping off the kerb and not looking. Why aren’t these people hobbling around with scaffolding nailed to their legs? Is there no justice? Why can’t the speeding twits doing wheelies on mopeds through residential areas simply take themselves quietly out of the gene pool, without threatening any of the rest of us? And why do they build in safety features to the design of BMWs, when all it means is that the prats who drive them will kill somebody other than themselves when they thoughtfully test the acceleration in a crowded suburb. I’d put the airbags on the bumpers, and make the BMW logo on the steering wheel spiky. Not that I’m bitter. Much.

I wonder if my annoying road safety awareness will continue once I can drive again? The family car is visible from the sofa. I very much suspect that the battery is flat. In the meantime, I shall continue to fantasise about my fast car. I just have to wait until I’m completely bald. It can’t be too long now…

Incidentally...

I found this on a genuine academic website about the uses of the Ilizarov frame. Imagine what the world wide web would have looked like if it was around during the reign of Queen Victoria...

Physiotherapain

It’s funny how physiotherapy diagrams always manage to avoid showing the face. If they did, there would be a particular sort of grimace that the patient would need to achieve at the end of any ‘stretch’. The sort of expression that is generally reserved for watching a car crash in its early stages. If any medical textbook illustrators needed to know the sort of thing, I now have it down pat.

The illustration above is from a booklet I found on the web. I couldn’t do this with my good leg. On a good day. Clearly, I have discovered the Ilazarov physiotherapy textbook for ballet dancers. However, I do now have some of my own exercises to do. Perhaps not quite as impressive as the picture, but pretty spectacular for a chap who walks as if he has a rod up his bottom even when he is fit and well.

These exercises were the positives that I brought away from my visit to St. George’s yesterday. The negatives were a little frustrating. My release date has been knocked back another 6 weeks at least, as my leg is healing, but not desperately quickly. My consultant was extremely helpful, confidence inspiring in his obvious expertise, and supportive. Yesterday I would happily have traded all of this for a fly-by-night scalpel-jockey who was prepared to tell me that I would have the frame taken off within hours, and would be playing football by the end of the week. Even though I don’t really play football.

Physiotherapy is the way forward though. I don’t know if it will really make enough of a difference to justify the pain of trying to do aerobics with sputnik screwed to my leg, but I’m going to have to assume that it will. It does, of course, allow me to believe that I can play a part in my own recovery. Because after a while, it’s difficult to believe that the best way you can improve yourself is by sitting with your foot up in front of daytime television. Especially when an hour of the current morning schedule is filled with the hard luck stories of other poor buggers who have found themselves flung at the mercy of the medical profession.

In the meantime, Sarah has come back from her evening jog. She took up running at roughly the same time that I arrived on her doorstep with little functioning from the knee down. My evening will be taken up with fielding Sarah’s chatter about her running hobby, whilst a documentary about ballet dancers is on in the background. I might go into the kitchen to try a bit more physio. And there’s an open bottle of wine in there.