Tuesday, November 13, 2007
BIONIC WOMAN
Thanks for all your kind comments about my current predicament. Sadly, I STILL haven't been given any money or beautiful Scandinavian men. Ah, well ... I know who my friends are, that's all I'm saying ...
So: how did it happen?
On Friday morning, I put some washing in the tub and got the laundry basket from the top of a cupboard.
I turned, lost my balance, reached out for the wall to stop my head bashing into it, and the next thing I knew was that I was looking at my right arm, which was horribly lumpy and distorted.
A few minutes later, I had put the washing on, because I was taught that we have to pull ourselves together, keep a stiff upper lip and, if the worst comes to the worst, have a cup of sugary tea.
For the next half an hour I was frantically tidying the living room.
I still hadn't had a cup of sugary tea.
Then I thought it might be a good idea to phone around to see if I could get a lift to the local minor casualty department.
"Oooh, poor you, that looks horrible!" said the woman behind the desk. "Helen, come in here and see this one!"
"Oooh, that's a good one, that's really different!" said Helen, David Lynch fan and collector of pictures of Victorian sideshow freaks.
An X-Ray later meant that I was on my way to A & E.
Well, I say "on my way".
My in-laws were the escorts.
My MIL delayed the journey by about ten minutes. "Looook, it's my friend Barbara over there!" she said in the car park, which meant that she had a good old chinwag with Barbara when I was potentially DYING.
When we got to A & E, and after the inevitable NHS hold ups and mix ups, I was given some sedatives and put on a trolley bed and told that there was a *possibility* that I would need an operation.
Within minutes, a couple of people seemed to be trying to stretch my arm to approximately twice my height. It's possible that I may have a lucrative future career as a human cherry picker.
"I've got it!" one of them said.
A cast was put on my arm and I was whisked off for another X-Ray.
An appointment was made to see a specialist.
When I get home, predictably enough. I START GOOGLING.
The potential operation could involve having pins inserted ... or a bone graft from my pelvis.
*faints*
*faints again*
On the plus side, my forthcoming infection with MRSA and subsequent death will lead to some very frank and moving writing here, which may even mean that I break through the Post Of The Week four nominations but no shortlist barrier. I won't win though, beaten by a frank and moving account of someone's pet chinchilla having kidney failure, surviving against all the odds, but tragically dying in a fire.
Then, the posthumous written collection will do great business in WH Smiths Stories Of Great Personal Suffering section, and Geoff will be able to give up his job, move to Hollywood and *find happiness* with a 19 year old blonde socialite-turned-reality TV show star.
The hospital appointment is tomorrow :(
I should say as a footnote that anybody who slags off people who work at the coalface of the NHS is a c*nt, by the way.
So: how did it happen?
On Friday morning, I put some washing in the tub and got the laundry basket from the top of a cupboard.
I turned, lost my balance, reached out for the wall to stop my head bashing into it, and the next thing I knew was that I was looking at my right arm, which was horribly lumpy and distorted.
A few minutes later, I had put the washing on, because I was taught that we have to pull ourselves together, keep a stiff upper lip and, if the worst comes to the worst, have a cup of sugary tea.
For the next half an hour I was frantically tidying the living room.
I still hadn't had a cup of sugary tea.
Then I thought it might be a good idea to phone around to see if I could get a lift to the local minor casualty department.
"Oooh, poor you, that looks horrible!" said the woman behind the desk. "Helen, come in here and see this one!"
"Oooh, that's a good one, that's really different!" said Helen, David Lynch fan and collector of pictures of Victorian sideshow freaks.
An X-Ray later meant that I was on my way to A & E.
Well, I say "on my way".
My in-laws were the escorts.
My MIL delayed the journey by about ten minutes. "Looook, it's my friend Barbara over there!" she said in the car park, which meant that she had a good old chinwag with Barbara when I was potentially DYING.
When we got to A & E, and after the inevitable NHS hold ups and mix ups, I was given some sedatives and put on a trolley bed and told that there was a *possibility* that I would need an operation.
Within minutes, a couple of people seemed to be trying to stretch my arm to approximately twice my height. It's possible that I may have a lucrative future career as a human cherry picker.
"I've got it!" one of them said.
A cast was put on my arm and I was whisked off for another X-Ray.
An appointment was made to see a specialist.
When I get home, predictably enough. I START GOOGLING.
The potential operation could involve having pins inserted ... or a bone graft from my pelvis.
*faints*
*faints again*
On the plus side, my forthcoming infection with MRSA and subsequent death will lead to some very frank and moving writing here, which may even mean that I break through the Post Of The Week four nominations but no shortlist barrier. I won't win though, beaten by a frank and moving account of someone's pet chinchilla having kidney failure, surviving against all the odds, but tragically dying in a fire.
Then, the posthumous written collection will do great business in WH Smiths Stories Of Great Personal Suffering section, and Geoff will be able to give up his job, move to Hollywood and *find happiness* with a 19 year old blonde socialite-turned-reality TV show star.
The hospital appointment is tomorrow :(
I should say as a footnote that anybody who slags off people who work at the coalface of the NHS is a c*nt, by the way.
Labels: Barry Sheen, David Lynch, fractured wrist, Green Wing, Kanye West, MRSA, Post Of The Week, the MIL, worrying
