Diary of a (partially) broken man

Sunday 17th August: Perfectly splendid day, with exceedingly generous drinks and outstanding nibbles, (best so far this year by a distance), to celebrate Mark’s 60th. The House Guest was a smidge hors de combat and had work to do, so stayed behind and looked after the dog. Then onto Jimmy The Vod’s lunch party where he had prepared a brilliant oriental banquet including a delicious Wild Mushroom Pho, dim sum, and tempura’d soft-shelled crabs. Bloody marvellous. He also introduced me to The Curators who make delicious snacks that were truly… what’s the word?… delicious. They’re very low calorie, crisp, crunchy, tasty ~ imagine eating the best pork scratchings with zero downside. Not doing their PR… wish I was! Back Home, House Guest OK, Dog OK, replete. Watched another episode of Zero Day with Robert de Niro. All round splendid day.

Monday 18th August: Madame departed at 0900 for tennis and I followed my normal routine in preparation of the day. The House Guest announced he was off into the village for a proper working man’s breakfast at the Staff Canteen, and I contemplated more of the news and started reading up on York.

At about 0945 the house guest returned and announced that the Canteen was closed, so I offered to prepare, (as Madame was not there to offer comment or insight), a working man’s breakfast. E&B, Beans, Italian tinned toms and toast, plus tea. This was all prepared and ready to serve, when the doorbell went, announcing the arrival of the Supermarket delivery. I headed for the door, when rather unexpectedly I stopped moving forward and instead moved downwards… and at some speed. I missed the grandfather clock, but hit everything else, whilst also screaming in pain as my right leg stopped being a Boyd supporter.

The Houseguest quite rightly opened the door to get the Groceries in, whilst I writhed on the deck, with HG suggesting to the bemused and slightly scared van driver that this was purely a temporary thing and I’d be fine. He then packed the groceries away, and inquired what I wanted to do next. We agreed that despite my supine position and pain, finishing the breakfast and having a soothing cup of tea, whilst we sought solutions, was the way ahead.

Unbeknownst to me, he had also called Madame. She therefore arrived back from the tennis to find me lying propped against a door frame and eating my breakfast, which the HG had cut up for me. The HG was sitting at the kitchen table, reading his on-line newspaper and finishing his now tepid breakfast. She took it from our stoical attitude that it was probably not serious.

She was almost right, until I tried to get up and discovered [a] Madame and the HG couldn’t get me up and [b] that it felt as though I had torn my Achilles. An Ambulance was called therefore. The ambulance would take about four hours because I was not bleeding nor was my chest clammy. [?] Sure enough some 4 hours later, the ambulance poled up with a delightful pair of paramedics, amusing, genial, gentle and professional. Triage, check, more triage, fit to travel… where to I inquired. “Aah” said paraboss. “That’s the question. If we take you to Great Western you’ll be there for hours, so we could try to get you into Thatcham, but we’ll have to phone to see if they’ll take you.” It turned out that after some back and forth, I was considered not ill enough to be acceptable to Thatcham. BUT, and it was a big but, the X-ray department shut at 1800 and the first appointment was at 2000. BUT I couldn’t be sent for an X-ray until I had been seen… so I’d probably be better off at GWH - or the abattoir as it is known locally. Furthermore, it might actually be quicker if I went under my own steam because they might have to wait for an ambulance admittance slot.

By now I was off the floor and the crutches acquired in Tenerife, (see BOP passim) had been found and restored, although it was almost impossible to do anything on the right foot. Anyway into the car and together with the HG, who had decided there was more fun to be had in Barcelona and Mykonos, toddled off to Swindon.

We arrived at 1620, and I was told there was a five-hour delay. I stayed, Madame and HG left, he to station, her to important village meeting. Time passed. At 2130, I called Madame, and suggested she might want to come back and pick me up because patently nowt was going to happen, including supper, drinking, or even X-rays. I then happened to catch the eye of a gatekeeper, who asked if he might help. I explained that I was parked in a wheelchair that only worked if it went backwards, and I was unable to walk forwards. I was therefore, in every sense, immobile and could not get anywhere to find out what the hell was going. Furthermore, I had been triaged over a century ago, and could he possibly find out whether I had, in fact, died and this was purgatory. The other alternative was that was in heaven and destined to an eternity of wondering whether Buddhists had it about right?

He didn’t do Irony.

He did after clicking on a screen, do; “I’m so sorry, your name wasn’t assigned to a doctor…” and I would be the next one in. I was, The doctor touched me thrice and said, “Why haven’t you been for an X-Ray?” I explained that despite my looks, I was not qualified to issue such instructions - which he promptly did. By now Madame had arrived and after some lessons on dragging a large lump in a wheelchair backwards following a blue line, (take the handbrake off), we set off. Compared to the earlier part of the medical day, time flew after that.

By 23:50, it was confirmed that I had broken my ankle; that I would be off everything for three weeks; that I would be wearing a Black Boot; that I was to avoid becoming a clot, by taking huge dollops of blood thinners and painkillers were great, but avoid Ibuprofen, because it hates blood thinners.

The hospital was interesting for the five hours I was there, but thank God none of them run a human trafficking operation because the throughput is so badly managed and no one seems to question it. There were only a few crazies, including a rather splendid young man, who despite the chill and the air-con set to 15, (net zero isnt a thing in Swindon apparently), wore very tight jeans and nothing else. He was much in the manner of Mick Jagger c1970 in the last 30 minutes of a concert in Brazil. He arrived slightly swivel-eyed and loudly apologising to people as he was wheeled past by his chum in a (rare) forward-moving wheelchair. His pal looked like an elderly black roadie. About thirty minutes later, Mick came flying past, hopping very energetically, and shouting incoherently, apart from the clear “…ferkin chair.” He disappeared outside, whereupon after a couple of minutes, there was a terrible scream and “That hurts!” Whereupon he reappeared with his Roadie, who must have gone out through a different door, with another wheelchair, repeating exactly what he’d done earlier. He did this again later. The second time he did it and screamed, he never came back.

I’m writing this now because I cannot sleep, but Madame can. I have taken the boot off. I cannot get upstairs to my schlaff-pit and my leg has got the trembles. Maybe I’ll convince her to give me a hot cooked breakfast, unlike yesterday’s.

Talking of the triumph of Hope over Experience, and hoping that all my chums heading for the North have the best of times, here are the tips for Day 1.