Talk to the Hand ... If You Dare

WARNING: There be talk of surgery in forbidden places. Run now and save yourself. For I will spare some details but not enough to prevent you from going a little green in the gills. And yes, I love it. Ha ha ha...

First some text messages I have sent over the last few days...

"Sorry man. No mobiles on the ward. Had a caudal epidural meaning I couldnt feel anything below my waist for 10 hours. This is a clandestine text btw"

"Dude. Have to scratch mooted pub quiz and tomorrow's meal. Just been discharged. Stitches. Swollen. The horror. Must eat more codrydamol and lie on my front. A ruinous op. Ouch."

"Youcchhh. I would go out tonite but my perineum has stitches in it that may painfully wear. Give morgan my birthday best wishes and see you on wed."

" Ey up chuck. Hospital was/is a real bummer and needed daily nursing care since (thanx mum!) These painkillers are quite nice ... mmmm"

The lastest curative assault on my nether regions has been the most prolonged and 'interesting' yet. Three days on the ward, watching Hospicom, the inhospital entertainment system and riffling through my question files. The on-demand movies were The 39 Steps and Sophie's Choice. I thought they were covering themselves in the kind of decorum that deflects accusations of bad taste from the sick and their relatives. Then I noticed they had Men & Motors as well, and lo and behold breasts came at me from my portable screen. Ooh, I remember when it were communal TV blah blah...

The last few days have been spent in a sort of melted haze. This has played havoc with my WQC preparations, as my mind has been so blurred by painkillers I am not sure I am capable of remembering anything.

Every day my mum changes my dressing and comes out with a seriously disheartening comment like "Oh my God" or "Bloody hell!". Her face as grave as the skies above (curse you weather for further dampening my mood). I would love her to say, it's coming along nicely. But as with myself my mother has a tendency to be blunt or to at least write her emotions across her face well enough for you to read.

The picture above is of the drip (so sorry but I had to show someone ... every one ... loooookk at it) entry point.

Unfortunately they failed with the first attempt due to the discovery of a valve and so moved on to stabbing another part of my hand. Strangely, my old fear of needles (yes, belonophobia) has gone. I'm so used to medical staff sticking sharp things in me that they might as well be tickling me with a feather duster (only of course, I would much prefer the tickling). Now I realise it was facing the fear, repeatedly, until I couldn't feel it anymore. That is how phobias die.

But don't worry! Please do not fret. I feel fine. Apart from the obvious undercarriage nastiness.

Music will save me
I even went to a gig tonight: The National. Third time unlucky it seems. They were powerful, magnificent etc. Yet we had the misfortune to watch it at Koko in Camden. A red labyrinth of the worst kind.

Bad sound in the pit. Vertigo-inducing balconies. Nattering idiots. Big heads. The National were hamstrung by all these insufferable factors. Curse theatres that have been converted into venues such as this. Curse them all and may they burn to a tender crisp.

Admittedly, my viewing enjoyment may have been slightly impaired by my narcotic-induced dopiness. I almost fell asleep standing up. Thank God I didn't, for I would have surely crashed to the ground in a flaccid heap. (Why do the words flaccid and heap go together so well, or is that just me?). People would have stared and murmurred, having been given further licence to talk over the band. Morons.

A final word. Or two: This gibberish has been brought to you by one who is with the analgesics. Hmmm, everything is so fuzzy, warm, distant. Saturday is gonna be fun.

On a lighter note
Recuperation means I will watch anything on TV. This time round I watched Paris-martial arts chopsocky joint Kiss of the Dragon. Appalling but fun nonetheless.

However, I had one delightful WTF moment. It must be shared with the world. It happened like this: Burt "Hey little hen" Kwouk was machine-gunned in the back by chairman Frank off Footballers Wives, sporting an American accent. Frank was then stabbed to death with two chopsticks to the throat by Jet Li.

What a wonderfully amusing world we live in. A world that constantly surprises you in the nicest way possible is one surely worth cherishing.