The sickbed diary of a whinging man

So. It happened this afternoon. Between 12 and 3.30.

[By the way. I think the Tramadol are kicking in as I appear to be drooling]

There was no count to five. Just … back in the room, trussed up like a turkey. Then the sling attached and out I’m slung. With a book of exercises and instructions on various matters and a bag full of analgesics.

My arm is still numb, which is utterly expected, but totally weird. I may even wake up with it numb, but the block ought to have worn off by then. I can feel the sutres. At least, I know where they are.

Today has been odd, and the loss of use of my left arm totally odd. The PD makes my left hand rather less than efficient, but with the arm strapped to my torso, numbed and odd-feeling, it’s another ball game entirely. Sitting down? Nightmare. Getting up? Torture. Getting into bed? Epic. Getting out? Christ. Right now, I can’t see it happening.

There was more, but my laptop ate it.

There will be more, and it might even be interesting.

But I’m of a mind to attempt sleep. I’ve blocked myself in with pillows to keep me on my back. It’s not going to be a fun night. And everything I need is on my left …

A series of unusual events

Well, now that was a strange and rather stressful series of events. I am trying to buy a house for myself and my ginger cat. Because my good friend Si Fenton (see his blog here) has decided for some reason that making a new life in Senegal is altogether more attractive than continuing to live in Brighton, attending to the needs of some of the more unfortunate of our society. Good luck to him, though he has his gris-gris, so he’ll be just fine. Well, that and the fact that he’s a thoroughly good bloke … he will make a real go of anything he does, and will make friends anywhere. Dammit, he even made friends with me, an I’m a cantankerous fucker at the best of times.

So. The house. At the last minute a problem appears, and I mean at the last minute, and I mean a problem. I revise my offer to take it into account … I won’t go into the negotiating process because it wasn’t a negotiation.

Suffice to say that at three yesterday I wished the vendor luck, and realised that I’d be homeless in a week. Oops. This was problematic. And stressful. I viewed another property, but no. I managed to find somewhere for myself and the mog, and that was that. I was looking at imposing myself on a friend (and imposing the mog, too) for longer than would be comfortable. I slept poorly, and irritatingly (apparently). At times like this the PD does seem to get worse.

This morning I woke, got on with stuff. Noted that the fridge had vanished, sold (as expected) and continued to transcribe the interview I’m currently writing up with King Mob, the new band of Chris Spedding, Glen Matlock and Steve Parsons.

The plumber appeared, and the heating came back on. The house I was buying came back on the market. Then, out of the blue came a mail asking if I was still interested at the price I had moved to. Excited, trepidatious, I checked with my builder and a friend … the answer was yes. So, suddenly I have a house again. Barring last minute madness, I’ll move in on Friday.

But if all looked rosy, I received a call from the hospital. My MRI scan revealed a slap lesion and a labial tear in my left shoulder (Googlers beware). No wonder it’s sore! No wonder my average has reduced … could I make an appointment on Friday? I laughed … Friday week, yes … So. I see the specialist. Within six weeks of this they’ll do some arthroscopy. Then I’ll spend six weeks, maybe more, with my left shoulder in a sling. Then a month or three of rehab. Good lord. I’ll be a mutant by the end.

But … I’ll have a fantastic house, my shoulder will work, I’ll have finished my novel, my play. Life will go on. And I’ll be right in the thick of it.