Revelations

Back in the capital. Had a very chilled out week up north, lots of R&R, not to mention a goodly amount of TLC from my Mum. Whilst back home, my cast broke, so we went to A&E, and I was thinking, oh well, it’s annoying that it broke, but at least they’ll take this behemoth cast off and put a new lighter one on. Oh no, nothing like that. First of all, some abuse from the triage nurse, who was wearing so much fake tan that she just appeared to me as a blur of orange and blue. She implied that it was my fault the cast had broken! The nerve. So I said, ‘listen lady, I ain’t been doing no karate, so drop the attitude bee-hatch’. I didn’t really say that. Instead, I stood there meekly whilst she said I shouldn’t have been showering or bathing since steam can weaken the plaster of paris. I’ve been wrapping it in plastic as I was advised when I first broke it, and if anyone thinks I’m not going to wash for 6 weeks, well, they’ve got another think coming, that’s what I say. I communicated this to the triage nurse through my eyes. When I (finally) got to see the real nurse, all she did was put MORE plaster on top. So now the freakin thing is EVEN HEAVIER. Result.

Anyway, tomorrow I have my appointment at the fracture clinic and I am praying that the doc will think it is time for the lighter cast. Since the fall, I’ve been trying to see the bright side, which, until Friday, was eluding me. I mean, sure, I’m off work, but I can’t take full advantage of that with my arm in plaster, so where’s the silver lining, I was asking myself. Then, everything became clear as I realised, with an almost inexpressible joy, that breaking my hand meant that I wouldn’t have to go on the company away day. I’ve been trying to think of a way to get out of it ever since the announcement that we would be travelling en masse to Belgium for a day of hell. You may think I am exaggerating how bad these away days are, but I am not. S didn’t want to go either, so she left the company last month, and is now in India. That’s how bad she didn’t want to go. And now I can’t go, and it’s the perfect excuse. I had to pretend to be very disappointed when I told the Evil One’s PA, and I think I was pretty convincing. I had to keep pretending I was wincing with pain as I tried to keep from grinning from ear to ear. So, huge sighs of relief, I don’t have to go. I’m going to say that again because it feels so good: I don’t have to go. Aahhh.

I had another revelation yesterday when I got back to the flat. I had to change the light bulb in my bedroom - due to a really high ceiling and a maddeningly short flex, I had to move my bed and employ a pair of stepladders. After much precarious swinging to and fro, I had light again. When I started to reposition the bed, I was hit with a blinding flash: if I moved the bed just a foot to the left, I would not only have room to open my wardrobe doors with ease, but also, more crucially, be able to avoid cracking my shins on the corners of the bed frame - which is pretty much a daily occurrence. Why didn’t I think of that when I moved in? I’ve been here since last December, and only now have I discovered the optimum furniture layout for this room. Still, focus on the positive, it’s moved now, plus the light is working, so it’s all good.

Anyone wondering about Oz? Me too, but I've reached my threshold for one-handed typing for the day, so tune in tomorrow.