Under doctor's orders

The recent hiatus in posting has been caused by a little knee surgery. Being a humble physician, I am not quite sure what the orthopaedic surgeon did, but it took twice as long as the guys who had knee replacements. However I was really quite pleased to escape the catheterisation that one fellow patient required afterwards. Indeed, I quickly sussed that the passport to an early discharge was whether you managed to get up to the toilet during the previous night. So I disconnected myself from the ever so pleasant, self administered morphine machine and attended to some partially ambulatory nocturnal ablutions. I hobbled back, past a large white board, which had patient's name in one column and EDD in another. EDD? Estimated date of death? Felt like it. Estimated date of delivery? I hope not, not at my age anyway. Estimated date of departure? Maybe, but it was still several days too far away.

On the ward round, the next morning, the consultant surgeon was explaining to his entourage, the rationale for performing a complex series of procedures (normally performed on footballers in their mid 20's) on someone who has no recall of ever being 25! "This man," he said quite clearly, "is an uber athlete". Wow, such insight!

His sidekick then asked "On a scale of 1 to 10 how much pain are you in?"

"Oh, less than 1" I whispered, through gritted teeth.

"Discharge!"

So now I am immobilised for 6 weeks, with strict instructions not to weight bear. Bloody hell, footballers in their mid twenties must be tougher than they look. Weight bear? My leg is somewhat nippy and the instructions to not weight bear seem to be ever so slightly superfluous.

I am under doctor's orders.