What did I say? The lingerie of the cast world? I think so. Well, probably anyway.
In a not too distantly past conversation with a close and equally desperate friend the topic of just how to pick up men came up. Not just men you understand. Desirable men. Very desirable men who were interested in equally desirable but slightly desperate women. Ok we didn’t mind if the men were not quite so desirable and very desperate.
Well now I know the answer. Disablement. Metatarsal slippers. Crutches. Who would have dreamed that these simple solutions were the simple solution to a question women and men have been asking for years, decades, millennia? Fuck all that putting on a posh frock, smearing ones lips with stuff that had previously been smeared onto unwitting animals, forcing ones broken feet into very tall red stilettos. No, just break a metatarsal and you have it made. This is what happened:
Having been released into the wild wearing my aforementioned slipper I was officially allowed to go swimming. The aforementioned friend and general hero person took me.
I crutched up the steps into the foyer of the health club. A man instantly approached me. And sympathised. And told me the story of how many sexy sporting injuries he had accrued over the years. And how we were bonded by a common theme – metatarsal injuries. I told him my story. Of my career as a footballer. How I broke my metatarsal playing in a match for Wales. He escorted me to the lift, gave me his number and invited me for a drink.
I got in the lift. A man was in the lift. He sympathised. He told me the story of all the sexy injuries he had acquired in his life as a rock god. Of how we were bonded by a common theme – crutches. I told him my story. Of my career as a professional footballer. How I broke my metatarsal playing in a match for Wales but how heroically I scored the winning goal before falling down in agony. We travelled to the top floor and back down again. He gave me his number and invited me for a meal.
I got in the pool (with a lot of hobbling). There was a man in the pool. He sympathised. He told me of all the sexy injuries he had endured in his career as a screen idol. Of how we were bonded by a common theme – disablement. I told him my story. Of my career as a professional and highly-paid footballer. How I broke my metatarsal playing in a match for Wales but how heroically I scored three winning goals before falling down in agony. We travelled to end of the pool and back again. He gave me his number and asked me to marry him. Bingo.
What more can I say really? The proof is in the pudding. Or the wedding cake. Metatarsal slippers – sex on a plate (or foot).
Showing posts with label crutches. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crutches. Show all posts
Friday, 15 June 2007
Tuesday, 12 June 2007
How Miracles Can Happen Even in Trauma Clinic
The plaster cast is gone. HOORAY.
Despite the fact that I finally understood what it was for. It was a punishment. For being reckless. Without the appropriate Extreme Sport Insurance. Or Extreme Leisure Insurance. What I had failed to take into account was that even lying naked in a hot chicken shed/outhouse was inherent with many dangers. No one should contemplate inactive leisure pursuits without the appropriate precautions. Like being very heavily insured. So the NHS doesn’t have an excuse to take out some of its anger on you. In the form of attaching large white devils to you leg. Like having one’s home constantly disability ready. So that at any moment a crutch-bound person can manoeuvre jauntily around the building smiling and humming a merry tune.
But I must have done my stint in purgatory because today I was released.
This is what happened:
The physicist drove me to the hospital at the allotted time allotted on the appointment card. The appointment was for Trauma Clinic.
And I know why they call it that. The four-hour wait was traumatic. Luckily they don’t charge for that handy service. Not like you would pay for a fairground ride in order to traumatise yourself, or a very bad movie, or even a holiday with one’s family. No, believe it or not, the promised trauma (complete with crying babies, drunken men, gabbling old ladies and an odd smell of wee), was completely and utterly free. If we don’t take into account the parking fees, the sending the physicist to the café/shop/little trolley thing for yet more food to keep us amused. And the sending the physicist to the cashpoint for more money to buy more food to keep us amused.
But it was all totally and utterly worth it. Because the first thing that happened (after the four hours and the mountain of food and the trauma) was that a nice lady with a pair of strange scissors cut the plaster off.
It was bliss. I sighed much in the manner of someone who was not at all traumatised but had just undergone a very different sort of experience.
The doctor poked my foot.
The doctor asked for a detailed explanation of how the hell I came to break the forth metatarsal and none of the others.
I explained that I was a professional football player and simply following current fashion but putting a new and interesting twist on it by breaking a hitherto-unclaimed by-other-celeb-footballers bone. He seemed to accept that in good faith.
Then he said the dreaded word. ‘Plaster’. My heart sunk. My bliss faded. My football career was on the rocks when I had only invented it moments before.
‘No!!!’ I cried in horror.
‘A walking plaster, it will be smaller,’ he assured me, scribbling on his slip of paper.
I contemplated that for a brief interlude. A walking plaster. Handy, seeing as I couldn’t. I wondered if it could also drive and dance tango. If that were to case then I was going to accept this man’s offer. But then I hesitated. In the previous four hours I had observed many a traumatised soul emerge from the hidden depths of the clinic with plasters on. Some of the plasters were a nice shade of blue. Some of then were not adhering to legs but clutching on to people’s arms. Some people actually appeared to emerge plaster-less. But definitely none of the plasters were walking. None. I’d have noticed that. And the physicist would have commented on the unlikely physics of it.
I realised that, in his naivety this doctor was trying to make plasters sound a lot more exciting than they actually are.
‘I hated that other plaster!’ I exclaimed. Hoping he would change his mind in a way that doctors never do. That he would throw up his hands in surprised delight and declare that my foot was not broken. It was all a dream. That x-ray on the screen was simply from an archive of interesting x-rays they had scrounged off youtube and should I care to click the mouse it would dance a fandango.
He peered at the x-ray, peered at my foot, peered at the ceiling, peered at his small piece of paper. And then eureka!!! The impossible happened.
‘You could probably have a metatarsal slipper, since it is the fourth and therefore not too vulnerable.’
I had no idea what a metatarsal slipper was. But it sounded good. It sounded like something small. Unlike a plaster. Which is something big. I didn’t hesitate, or wait for any further explanation just in case it was all a dream,
‘Yes!’ I shouted much in the manner of someone who was not at all traumatised but had just undergone a very different sort of experience.
And that is just what I have. A metatarsal slipper. It is the lingerie of the bone-support world. It is small, discrete, slips on and off like a wisp of silk demonstrating how well-shaven a leg is. It looks like this:
And HA to all you harbingers of doom that predicted I would be in plaster for 6 weeks.
And sorry all the men who were developing plaster fetishes just to please me. But really, metatarsal slippers, you have to admit, fucking sexy eh?
Despite the fact that I finally understood what it was for. It was a punishment. For being reckless. Without the appropriate Extreme Sport Insurance. Or Extreme Leisure Insurance. What I had failed to take into account was that even lying naked in a hot chicken shed/outhouse was inherent with many dangers. No one should contemplate inactive leisure pursuits without the appropriate precautions. Like being very heavily insured. So the NHS doesn’t have an excuse to take out some of its anger on you. In the form of attaching large white devils to you leg. Like having one’s home constantly disability ready. So that at any moment a crutch-bound person can manoeuvre jauntily around the building smiling and humming a merry tune.
But I must have done my stint in purgatory because today I was released.
This is what happened:
The physicist drove me to the hospital at the allotted time allotted on the appointment card. The appointment was for Trauma Clinic.
And I know why they call it that. The four-hour wait was traumatic. Luckily they don’t charge for that handy service. Not like you would pay for a fairground ride in order to traumatise yourself, or a very bad movie, or even a holiday with one’s family. No, believe it or not, the promised trauma (complete with crying babies, drunken men, gabbling old ladies and an odd smell of wee), was completely and utterly free. If we don’t take into account the parking fees, the sending the physicist to the café/shop/little trolley thing for yet more food to keep us amused. And the sending the physicist to the cashpoint for more money to buy more food to keep us amused.
But it was all totally and utterly worth it. Because the first thing that happened (after the four hours and the mountain of food and the trauma) was that a nice lady with a pair of strange scissors cut the plaster off.
It was bliss. I sighed much in the manner of someone who was not at all traumatised but had just undergone a very different sort of experience.
The doctor poked my foot.
The doctor asked for a detailed explanation of how the hell I came to break the forth metatarsal and none of the others.
I explained that I was a professional football player and simply following current fashion but putting a new and interesting twist on it by breaking a hitherto-unclaimed by-other-celeb-footballers bone. He seemed to accept that in good faith.
Then he said the dreaded word. ‘Plaster’. My heart sunk. My bliss faded. My football career was on the rocks when I had only invented it moments before.
‘No!!!’ I cried in horror.
‘A walking plaster, it will be smaller,’ he assured me, scribbling on his slip of paper.
I contemplated that for a brief interlude. A walking plaster. Handy, seeing as I couldn’t. I wondered if it could also drive and dance tango. If that were to case then I was going to accept this man’s offer. But then I hesitated. In the previous four hours I had observed many a traumatised soul emerge from the hidden depths of the clinic with plasters on. Some of the plasters were a nice shade of blue. Some of then were not adhering to legs but clutching on to people’s arms. Some people actually appeared to emerge plaster-less. But definitely none of the plasters were walking. None. I’d have noticed that. And the physicist would have commented on the unlikely physics of it.
I realised that, in his naivety this doctor was trying to make plasters sound a lot more exciting than they actually are.
‘I hated that other plaster!’ I exclaimed. Hoping he would change his mind in a way that doctors never do. That he would throw up his hands in surprised delight and declare that my foot was not broken. It was all a dream. That x-ray on the screen was simply from an archive of interesting x-rays they had scrounged off youtube and should I care to click the mouse it would dance a fandango.
He peered at the x-ray, peered at my foot, peered at the ceiling, peered at his small piece of paper. And then eureka!!! The impossible happened.
‘You could probably have a metatarsal slipper, since it is the fourth and therefore not too vulnerable.’
I had no idea what a metatarsal slipper was. But it sounded good. It sounded like something small. Unlike a plaster. Which is something big. I didn’t hesitate, or wait for any further explanation just in case it was all a dream,
‘Yes!’ I shouted much in the manner of someone who was not at all traumatised but had just undergone a very different sort of experience.
And that is just what I have. A metatarsal slipper. It is the lingerie of the bone-support world. It is small, discrete, slips on and off like a wisp of silk demonstrating how well-shaven a leg is. It looks like this:
And HA to all you harbingers of doom that predicted I would be in plaster for 6 weeks.
And sorry all the men who were developing plaster fetishes just to please me. But really, metatarsal slippers, you have to admit, fucking sexy eh?
Sunday, 10 June 2007
How to Turn Disablement to Your Advantage and the Mysteries of Casts
I think I’m getting the hang of this disablement thing now. It is simply a question of role reversal. The trick is to use everyday ordinary phrases that usually come out of others’ mouths and make them come out of mine. And substitute the word ‘Mum’ for ‘daughter’ or ‘daughter’s boyfriend’. Here are a few successful examples that occurred today:
Daughter, can I have a bagel please, and some orange juice and can you bring it to my room?
Daughter, we have run out of milk, can you go to the coop, and whilst you’re there get some bread and croissants and smoothies and biscuits and cake and a weeks shopping and a small kitchen sink?
Daughter’s boyfriend, my computer is broken can you come and fix it and install some programs and bring me a cup of coffee, and wash the car too?
Daughter, where are my favourite jeans and my blue t-shirt? If they are in the wash can you get them clean by an hour ago?
See, easy. Just a matter of mindset. Why didn’t I think of breaking my foot years ago? The house is running like a well oiled machine, without the mess of the oil or the noise of a machine. And I am sitting in bed. Doing fuck all. It is my intention never to have this cast removed. Ever.
The cast is still a bit of a mystery to me though. On one level it is familiar as an old, hot, heavy and stupidly large sock. On another level I can’t help but think - why? Is this not severe overkill? I have broken a bone in my foot. I saw the x-ray: 4th metatarsal. I have a cast that covers most of the western hemisphere. And weighs as much as the eastern hemisphere. And is as hot as the upper hemisphere. And as itchy as the lower hemisphere. By my calculations now this cast covers two earths.
And here’s another mysterious thing. (look away now if you are a bit squeamish). The two ends of the bones had managed to separate themselves rather in the fashion of Tower Bridge. Without the towers and the tourists. Well there might have been tourists but they are invisible to NHS x-ray. Probably Japanese and therefore quite nano and compact. So how is it supposed to work that by encasing most of my body in plaster of Paris these bones magically realign themselves? Out of protest? Because they have read the reports of famous footballers’ injuries and are followers of celeb fashion? Because they empathise with the plight of Japanese tourists unable to cross bridges?
Meanwhile, due to the highly technologically advanced nature of this thing adhering to my leg I am leaving white smudges all around the house. I’m like snotty-cat on a very bad shedding day. Visitors proffering chocolates have been able to discover my location by following the trail of plaster debris. Scientists looking for the answer to the missing matter in the universe have been crowding the house taking samples. NHS managers have been out in force with dustpans and brushes collecting the stuff in order to recycle it for the next unfortunate sauna accidentee.
And I have a confession, but please don’t tell anyone at the hospital, or my family, or anyone really – I’ve broken the world’s largest cast already. The bit that is under my foot, probably the crucial bit that is actually attempting to do something for the divorced metatarsal. Oops.
Daughter, can I have a bagel please, and some orange juice and can you bring it to my room?
Daughter, we have run out of milk, can you go to the coop, and whilst you’re there get some bread and croissants and smoothies and biscuits and cake and a weeks shopping and a small kitchen sink?
Daughter’s boyfriend, my computer is broken can you come and fix it and install some programs and bring me a cup of coffee, and wash the car too?
Daughter, where are my favourite jeans and my blue t-shirt? If they are in the wash can you get them clean by an hour ago?
See, easy. Just a matter of mindset. Why didn’t I think of breaking my foot years ago? The house is running like a well oiled machine, without the mess of the oil or the noise of a machine. And I am sitting in bed. Doing fuck all. It is my intention never to have this cast removed. Ever.
The cast is still a bit of a mystery to me though. On one level it is familiar as an old, hot, heavy and stupidly large sock. On another level I can’t help but think - why? Is this not severe overkill? I have broken a bone in my foot. I saw the x-ray: 4th metatarsal. I have a cast that covers most of the western hemisphere. And weighs as much as the eastern hemisphere. And is as hot as the upper hemisphere. And as itchy as the lower hemisphere. By my calculations now this cast covers two earths.
And here’s another mysterious thing. (look away now if you are a bit squeamish). The two ends of the bones had managed to separate themselves rather in the fashion of Tower Bridge. Without the towers and the tourists. Well there might have been tourists but they are invisible to NHS x-ray. Probably Japanese and therefore quite nano and compact. So how is it supposed to work that by encasing most of my body in plaster of Paris these bones magically realign themselves? Out of protest? Because they have read the reports of famous footballers’ injuries and are followers of celeb fashion? Because they empathise with the plight of Japanese tourists unable to cross bridges?
Meanwhile, due to the highly technologically advanced nature of this thing adhering to my leg I am leaving white smudges all around the house. I’m like snotty-cat on a very bad shedding day. Visitors proffering chocolates have been able to discover my location by following the trail of plaster debris. Scientists looking for the answer to the missing matter in the universe have been crowding the house taking samples. NHS managers have been out in force with dustpans and brushes collecting the stuff in order to recycle it for the next unfortunate sauna accidentee.
And I have a confession, but please don’t tell anyone at the hospital, or my family, or anyone really – I’ve broken the world’s largest cast already. The bit that is under my foot, probably the crucial bit that is actually attempting to do something for the divorced metatarsal. Oops.
Why Disabled People Deserve a Refund On Life and More of the Purple Foot
The purple foot saga still continues. Am I becoming obsessed? Probably.
Firstly though I would like to put in an important word for all disabled people, whether of a temporary nature or not. Because this is what I’ve discovered:
When lacking the use of the usual number of limbs, things take longer. Ordinary things take very much longer. Things I used to take for granted, like having a wee, or making a cup of tea (obviously important not to get those to confused no matter how limb-challenged one is) take very very much longer. Here is a simple but illustrative example –
Doing the Laundry Whilst on Crutches
Clothes on the floor cannot be picked up by the usual method. Therefore any stray knicker must be lifted chopstick-style with the crutches. This leads to a balancing-on-one-leg-bending-over-at-the-same-time situation. Dangerous. And I’m a yoga teacher, trained for years in the art of balancing-on-one-leg-bending-over-at-the-same-time situations. Nevertheless I fall. Risking further purple appendages.
Having put clothes in basket it turns out that it is impossible to carry aforementioned wicker receptacle. It must be pushed curling style (that Scottish ice game not the hair fashion) along the floors until it reaches the machine. This is especially fun down the stairs. Again risking further purple appendage situations.
Having reached the washing machine it is best to sit on the floor in order to load the device. That’s ok. It’s getting back up that proves impossible.
Hence one is stuck for half an hour watching clothes spin their merry way around a small glass window. I used to park Daughter the Younger in front of the machine for just this purpose. I feel deeply guilty about that now.
On the up side one is in the right place to unload the machine. On the down side one is still on the floor turning one’s head from basket of wet clothes to window depicting washing line, back and forth in a bemused manner. One still cannot get up, or carry a washing basket so the only alternative is to crawl, pushing the laundry in front or towing it behind using one of the Beloved’s ties as a towrope.
Once in the garden it is actually possible to hoist oneself to standing using the pole of the washing line. And using a spare bit of line (should one have such a thing to hand) one can lash oneself to the pole and thus have a stable base from which to hang the laundry. Except it is now impossible to reach as one is lashed to pole and basket is on ground.
In a final exciting twist of ingenuity one kicks over the basket with good foot, sending clothes flying across the grass and thus allowing them to dry. Sadly one is now lashed to a pole being scraped down in a purple-back situation as good foot has disappeared from under one.
Laundry 1 – Disabled Person 0
And this is what I’m saying. Disabled people deserve a refund. If it takes them five times the amount of time to perform an ordinary task then I think they are entitled to a refund of 4 minutes for every one minute everyone else gets.
_________________________________________________________________
So, I know you are all curious, how is the purple foot? Broken. Yes well and truly broken. I finally took the advice of a wise and noble friend.
She came to visit, took one look at the offending purpleness, shoved me into her car and shoved me out again at the hospital.
After only 3 hours I emerge with the most ridiculous plaster on my leg for one very broken metatarsal. I feel like someone from a 1950s hospital comedy. Look:
Firstly though I would like to put in an important word for all disabled people, whether of a temporary nature or not. Because this is what I’ve discovered:
When lacking the use of the usual number of limbs, things take longer. Ordinary things take very much longer. Things I used to take for granted, like having a wee, or making a cup of tea (obviously important not to get those to confused no matter how limb-challenged one is) take very very much longer. Here is a simple but illustrative example –
Doing the Laundry Whilst on Crutches
Clothes on the floor cannot be picked up by the usual method. Therefore any stray knicker must be lifted chopstick-style with the crutches. This leads to a balancing-on-one-leg-bending-over-at-the-same-time situation. Dangerous. And I’m a yoga teacher, trained for years in the art of balancing-on-one-leg-bending-over-at-the-same-time situations. Nevertheless I fall. Risking further purple appendages.
Having put clothes in basket it turns out that it is impossible to carry aforementioned wicker receptacle. It must be pushed curling style (that Scottish ice game not the hair fashion) along the floors until it reaches the machine. This is especially fun down the stairs. Again risking further purple appendage situations.
Having reached the washing machine it is best to sit on the floor in order to load the device. That’s ok. It’s getting back up that proves impossible.
Hence one is stuck for half an hour watching clothes spin their merry way around a small glass window. I used to park Daughter the Younger in front of the machine for just this purpose. I feel deeply guilty about that now.
On the up side one is in the right place to unload the machine. On the down side one is still on the floor turning one’s head from basket of wet clothes to window depicting washing line, back and forth in a bemused manner. One still cannot get up, or carry a washing basket so the only alternative is to crawl, pushing the laundry in front or towing it behind using one of the Beloved’s ties as a towrope.
Once in the garden it is actually possible to hoist oneself to standing using the pole of the washing line. And using a spare bit of line (should one have such a thing to hand) one can lash oneself to the pole and thus have a stable base from which to hang the laundry. Except it is now impossible to reach as one is lashed to pole and basket is on ground.
In a final exciting twist of ingenuity one kicks over the basket with good foot, sending clothes flying across the grass and thus allowing them to dry. Sadly one is now lashed to a pole being scraped down in a purple-back situation as good foot has disappeared from under one.
Laundry 1 – Disabled Person 0
And this is what I’m saying. Disabled people deserve a refund. If it takes them five times the amount of time to perform an ordinary task then I think they are entitled to a refund of 4 minutes for every one minute everyone else gets.
_________________________________________________________________
So, I know you are all curious, how is the purple foot? Broken. Yes well and truly broken. I finally took the advice of a wise and noble friend.
She came to visit, took one look at the offending purpleness, shoved me into her car and shoved me out again at the hospital.
After only 3 hours I emerge with the most ridiculous plaster on my leg for one very broken metatarsal. I feel like someone from a 1950s hospital comedy. Look:
Friday, 8 June 2007
What Advice Not to Take If You Have a Purple Foot
The purple foot saga continues. After assuring myself that it would be better in the morning I awake to find that it is still getting worse. The swelling is more swelled. The purpling is more purple. The pain is more paining. This was not my plan.
I decide to seek advice.
Physicist says not to bother with 6 hours in casualty as they will only X-ray it, tell me whether it is broken and send me away with a pretty white tubigrip regardless of the style of injury. I know she is right because many many a time I have accompanied her on just such a journey of futility.
Beloved is very grumpy. He doesn’t like it if I don’t function properly. He tells me that it is broken and it will take six weeks to mend and that its tough shit but don’t worry he is off to Sweden in the morning to avoid the worst excesses of my non-functionality. Also he will use the car so it doesn’t get out of practice driving places as soon as he gets back.
Daughter the Younger tells me that it will get better sooner if I go to the hospital and succumb to plastering. I will however not be able to swim or wash for 6 weeks so I may prefer to wear a stylish tubigrip (she has several in her drawer as does the physicist). She emphasises however that really I should go and get a plaster as she doesn’t trust me to be sensible. True. Yesterday I crutched through the woods for an hour in order to cure a nasty case of stir-craziness. And today I risked life and foot by going swimming.
Dance partner, who kindly rung last night to ask me to dance and was hit with the bad news, (but it’s ok because he has lots of people to dance with. Boo Hoo) advised ice, rest and elevation. And no dancing. Oh oh oh.
Ex-casualty nurse and sauna builder advised that it would be all right in the end.
Cat had no comment. Except to emphasise that he was still hungry.
If anyone more qualified than the above contributors would care to just reassure me that I will be back tangoing on Thursday please do so asap. If you are less qualified please do the same.
I have taken a picture of the offending article to aid amateur diagnosis so if you are of a squeamish nature look away now.
I decide to seek advice.
Physicist says not to bother with 6 hours in casualty as they will only X-ray it, tell me whether it is broken and send me away with a pretty white tubigrip regardless of the style of injury. I know she is right because many many a time I have accompanied her on just such a journey of futility.
Beloved is very grumpy. He doesn’t like it if I don’t function properly. He tells me that it is broken and it will take six weeks to mend and that its tough shit but don’t worry he is off to Sweden in the morning to avoid the worst excesses of my non-functionality. Also he will use the car so it doesn’t get out of practice driving places as soon as he gets back.
Daughter the Younger tells me that it will get better sooner if I go to the hospital and succumb to plastering. I will however not be able to swim or wash for 6 weeks so I may prefer to wear a stylish tubigrip (she has several in her drawer as does the physicist). She emphasises however that really I should go and get a plaster as she doesn’t trust me to be sensible. True. Yesterday I crutched through the woods for an hour in order to cure a nasty case of stir-craziness. And today I risked life and foot by going swimming.
Dance partner, who kindly rung last night to ask me to dance and was hit with the bad news, (but it’s ok because he has lots of people to dance with. Boo Hoo) advised ice, rest and elevation. And no dancing. Oh oh oh.
Ex-casualty nurse and sauna builder advised that it would be all right in the end.
Cat had no comment. Except to emphasise that he was still hungry.
If anyone more qualified than the above contributors would care to just reassure me that I will be back tangoing on Thursday please do so asap. If you are less qualified please do the same.
I have taken a picture of the offending article to aid amateur diagnosis so if you are of a squeamish nature look away now.
.JPG)
Thursday, 7 June 2007
How to Survive of Disablement with a Modicum of Sanity
So that’s it. I’m officially, albeit temporarily, disabled. Why did no one warn me that this might happen? Why didn’t my horoscope yesterday tell me to beware of small saunas containing naked people? I would have taken heed. Honestly. Why didn’t my horoscope last month warn me to install such handy features in my house as a Stannah Stairlift, those big rails around the toilet, a bungalow, a nurse, a stasis chamber?
All I can be grateful for is that my horoscope of about six months ago warned me against returning the NHS crutches to the relevant NHS establishment after Daughter the Younger put pitch fork through her foot. So, I have crutches. And beer. Perhaps not a good combination. But since I haven’t been warned I shall continue to mix the two.
Adaptation, as Darwin put it so well, is the name of the game. Life as a temporarily disabled person simply requires a modicum of adjustment. Should your find yourself in this position (possibly also due to lack of correct astral readings) here are some handy tips:
Crutches can be used for more than just crutching. You can use them –
As giant chopsticks to pick up sundry items from the floor
As mops by simply putting a damp rag underneath
As removers of cobwebs from unlikely places
As weapons of mass destruction in the case of severe anger. Which may happen. Life with crutches tends to develop those tendencies.
If you are on crutches you cannot –
Carry things upstairs
Carry things downstairs
Go upstairs
Go downstairs
Dance tango
If you are on crutches allow that little bit of extra time for –
Moving from one location to another
Going to the toilet (remember, disentangle before sitting)
Washing of any part of the body
Everything
You may discover that being temporarily disabled alters your relationship with people. This can be telling and perhaps it is worth making a note of. This is my personal experience –
Physicist comes over very helpful and drives to coop for emergency croissants
Daughter the Younger finds situation most amusing and demonstrates tricks to do on crutches that she perfected after the pitch-fork incident
Friends send cyber-hugs via email and MSN (thank you)
Sauna builders come round to apologise
Sauna builder’s dog comes round to apologise and eat anything she finds on the floor
Beloved becomes extremely grumpy and offers no hugs at all
Cat doesn’t notice and remains as hungry as ever
A final word of advice – beware false horoscopes, small saunas and remember, we are all just a slip away from purple feet that look like balloons.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
