You'll Have Had Yerr Teeeeeea?

For those of you who have not yet finished dinner, here is a photo of my leg again, only this time revealing the results of the operation which have finally put paid to my chances of ever advertising for Pretty Polly.
On a plus note, the doc said all was healing well. Terry Tendon, it turns out, is still hanging in there and so, as a special reward, I have been given a brand new cast to last me for the next four weeks. Hurrah!
Now, get on with your meals.

Mr Knife Goes to Knee Land

Well, after only 24 hours' grace, I was back at the hospital again today to once more meet interesting new people - an A&E consultant, an orthopaedics doctor, an orthopaedics registrar and, finally, an orthopaedics consultant.




The upshot of this four hours of flesh pressing was that I now have new legwear, albeit slightly less sleek and sexy than my original Ann Summers support stocking.

Oh, and I almost forgot.............they managed to work out what was wrong with me - physically, that is, not psychologically. It turns out that, as the orthopaedic consultant explained it to me, "Terry tendon has snapped and come away from Nigel kneecap". How naughty of him, I said.
To rectify this latest mechanical mishap to hit Pither's otherwise highly-tuned, athletic and God-like body I have to go back to the hospital again - supposedly tomorrow - to undergo an operation which involves stitching up Terry and inserting a length of wire to stop him going walkabout again.
If the orthopaedic surgeon's hangover is not too acute, the anaesthetist can keep his hands off the theatre sister long enough and there is a temporary lull in the raging epidemic of MRSA then there is a chance I will pull through. I will then have four to six weeks of wearing a cast to look forward to before I have to return to the Theatre of Blood to have the wire removed.
Nothing for Grantham today - except possibly the sad, pathetic, shambling joke which is my entire existence at the moment! Oh, and self-pity as well.

In Which Pither Goes To Casualty

I've got a new name for my greenhouse.
It used to be called, somewhat unimaginatively, "the greenhouse". It is now and shall henceforth, however, be known as "the fucking, bastard greenhouse".
I chose this new name at around 8.10 last night, shortly after I had watered my sole surviving marrow plant. Still carrying two watering cans, I turned to walk out, caught my toe on the bottom lip of the door frame and went crashing to the ground. I was unable to break my fall, my hands being full, and the slabbed patio did not provide a really comfortable landing.
I remember murmuring an expression of mild disappointment at my clumsiness and there was also, I recall, just the faintest exclamation of discomfort as pain shot through my body. "You ok, Reg?", shouted the next-door-but-one neighbour from his garden. At that point, my very-soon-to-be ex-wife came charging out to find that I had flattened the water butt and was lying on top of the watering cans, my head half an inch from the garage wall.
The pain, which centred on my left knee and shot right up my thigh, was intense but I was, of course, a brave little soldier and hardly made any fuss whatsoever, particularly when the diminutive Mrs P somehow managed to half carry my 16-stone frame up to bed and then administer emergency first aid in the form of a bag of frozen peas applied to my knee.

I dosed up on pain killers and spent a night without sleep, hoping that everything would be all right, or at least not so bad, in the morning............but come dawn my knee had swollen up like a football, the pain was, if anything, worse and I could hardly limp, let alone walk.
So, this afternoon, Mrs P finished work early to come home and take me to casualty. The ordeal lasted four hours - shorter than I had expected - and torn ligaments were diagnosed, a break having been ruled out by an X-ray.
Mrs P left me at one point to rush home and tend to the menagerie and so after I had been strapped up and given a pair of crutches I went outside to await her return. Unfortunately, the pain of standing up began to get to me again and so I attempted to slide down a wall and seat myself on a small ledge at its foot - big mistake! I slipped off, bumped onto the ground and ended up on my ass by a rubbish bin.

I have to admit I was feeling pretty low at that point (literally!) but consoled myself with the thought that things couldn't get much worse. I should have known - never, ever, ever say that to yourself. That was when a drunken woman stumbled over to me, offered me a fag and a swig of her Special Brew (seriously) and promptly sat down beside me to share her challenging views on race, society and her "fookin' ex".
She eventually stood up and shuffled away when VSTB EW drew up to collect me.

So, I am now a uniped. I think my job is safe because I am wirelessly connected at Pither Towers and so can work from home over the next few days but I think my chances of fun or even a holiday - something I had been planning - are bleak at the moment.

Nothing for Grantham and, on that subject, VSTB EW will never get sent. She has been an utter brick today, running around after me and being very caring. In the absence of third parties, then, why are we getting divorced, some might ask? Answers on a postcard, please.