I have spent the past week or so sitting around in different people’s houses with a wide variety of packets of frozen vegetables on my knee. Frozen sweetcorn, I’ve decided, is the most comfy owing to the size and shape of the bits.
It’s amazing how annoyed people get when you raid their freezers and defrost their vegetables without permission, it really is.
This is not some kind of fetish – these are doctor’s orders. The knee has finally been fixed. Strung back together with some bits of sinew, packed in with sawdust and glue and all sellotaped up. It’s very pretty indeed, although if I'm being picky the needlework is a bit shoddy. My Nan will have something to say.
‘Ice and elevate’ said the surgeon when he came to see me the morning after the op. ‘And plenty of rest for the first week’
‘Right you are’ I mumbled. Anesthetic-wise I’d hit the jackpot. General, local, epidural and smack. Bootiful.
I beamed at him and lay there scratching myself luxuriantly through the retreating malaise of this most enjoyable morphine and triple anesthetic experience and knowing full well I was planning a massive bender that very weekend. In hindsight this really wasn’t the best plan. And for the last week I have been a full blown insomniac. Unable to keep my eyes open during the day and bouncing of the walls as soon as my head touches the pillow.
So I’m back to hobbling around like an ancient crone and the reverse cowgirl is off the menu once again.
Although I consciously know it’s fixed, at the moment I am suffused with a hideously depressing sense of ‘back-to-square’ one. It’s been an awfully long journey to this day from that fateful moment on that roller when I felt the entire contents of my knee grind itself pestle and mortar style into mush. (I still shudder when I remember it).
Not that I’d change a thing. I’d go through the whole excruciating experience again. Being back in the mountains would be worth it. And nothing affirmed it more than the foul streak of pallid, spineless, flaccid humanity who yelled at me to ‘Get the Fuck out of the way’ because I was limping so slowly up a flight of stairs (avec crutch, splint and a bag over my shoulder) to catch a train yesterday.
I said nothing. But as providence would have it, despite rushing past me and nearly knocking me over, the cunt missed his train, which allowed me the infinite pleasure of tottering to the summit, and then very slowly limping past him while eyeballing him with the most ball-witheringly revolted expression I could muster. It was like pouring acid on a weed. He visibly shrank.
Actually I mostly felt genuine pity for the poor sod. I mean, how shit and miserable and thankless must his life be to yell at a cripple? Clearly, this is what Clapham Junction does to you if you spend too much time there. I won’t be doing so.