Bubbles On A Budget

I like champagne….a lot. I also have virtually zero disposable income. This presents a quaffing conundrum if you’re a posh at heart pleb like myself. However, there are ways of indulging in the scrumptious sparkling sauce that don’t require selling a kidney.

Firstly a quick word on Prosseco. IT IS NOT champagne. It isn't even a champagne substitute. For one, Prosicko comes from a different country. It uses different grapes AND a different production method. Comparing the two would be like trying to twin Yorkshire with Dubai.

To make champers you need classy grapes like pinot noir, chardonnay and pinot meunier. To make Poosucko you just need cold piss and a soda stream. Even Lambrini considers itself a rung up the liquor ladder.

I only came in for some milk

The big myth is that champers is expensive. Like all things you get what you pay for but you really don’t have to spend an epic amount to get a good one. A bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal is about £130 but a bottle of Louis Roederer Brut is only £30. Both are made by the same company, using the same technique, with the same grapes but one has a gold label and a longer shelf life thanks to a clever UV filtering wrapper. See if you can guess which one.

bargain prices!!

Think £30 is still a bit much? Well, if you’re prepared to hunt around the supermarkets you’ll find some cork popping deals. Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label for £24 in Sainsbury's?…..don’t mind if I do! Nicolas Feuillatte and Andre Carpentier on a Fathers Day Tesco offer for £15 each……..we’re gonna need a bigger boot!

Impulse purchases can be dangerous though. Etienne Dumont is constantly on offer. There’s a reason for that and your toilet will thank you for steering well clear.

If you’re going to buy champagne for the first time don’t buy the cheapest. My pref’d tipple is Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label and if I could, would drink it by the pint load. Which I do.

mmmm frozen raspberries mmmm

thicker glass keeps it cold

 

Iiii doonnt hav a pro blemm *hick*

Other bottles of note around £30 are Moet, Lanson, Laurent Perrier and Tattinger. All of which are reassuringly French sounding and rather scrummy but taste is only one half of the should I/shouldn't I equation. According to the missus, Moet makes me a grumpy drunk. Tattinger makes me a happy drunk but I get a longer buzz from Veuve Clicquot. Nicolas Feuillatte made me not want to be near anything loud the next day.

bit a Bolly daaaaarling

Drinking alone is a bit sad. You’ll need food as well!

Through extensive research I've found that foods beginning with the letter ‘C’ make a great companion. Chips, chocolate, crisps, curry, Chinese and chiwawa all work really well. I've found champagne is a very good pallet cleanser. The acidity clears and resets while the bubbles refresh to leave a fruity aftertaste. Think Cillit Bang for your gob.

Financing the fizz.

World-o-Quid shops like Poundland will be your biggest ally. Essentials like Warburtons bread, crisps, choccy and bribes for the kids can all be procured at a hugely reduced outlay compared to even the cheapest supermarket. If you can’t bear the thought of standing shoulder to shoulder with the great unwashed then get your shopping delivered online. 

“How will that save money?” I hear you gasp. 

Well, supermarkets now have an equal opportunities policy that insists a percentage of their staff be local and cranially challenged. In Stockport's case this means there's a never-ending supply. It also means there are nearly always order cock ups. A reasonably quick call to customer services should secure a free delivery and token discount off your next shop. Et voila, cash back.

If you're prepared to haggle and you can get over the secondhandedness, then eBay and carboot sales are well worth a punt. They've personally saved me thousands of squids, no really! Besides, carboots aren’t the embarrassing ailment you think they are. You've only got to look at the clientele parking to figure that out. In amongst the crappy Fords and Peugeot's are spanky new Range Rovers, Lexi (plural of Lexus), Beamers and Mercs. My personal fave parked up in a field was a 1year old Nissan GT-R in go-faster black. You've only got to Google the starting price of one to realize the rich aren't stupid. 

I think my best buy was a pair of pristine Fire XC Pro bike tyres which cost a grand total of £3. 

Total amount saved = £30. 

In just one purchase I'd got the rubber my bike needed and enough left over to get thoroughly mortaled.

Take my advice and start saving now, the drunken bliss that awaits you is well worth it.

Cast Off!!

You might not be aware but last October I broke my wrist, no really. I’ve tried to keep it low-key and not really mention it much. Today was the final day of being able to use my broken wrist as an excuse for being a lazy bazturd. I’ve been looking forward to this day for 8 months but it was here at last. The day was finally here! I was getting out! My in-arm-ceration was to end. At last, liberation for my re-scaffolded scaphoid. I would be free again to do the simple things like drive, use my right trouser pocket, use doors keys with a single hand, play darts, fire assault rifles and wipe my arse. I’d missed doing these things the most.

Formalities first though, hospital protocol meant a trip to Outpatients to collect the relevant paperwork, before then being dispatched to the Fracture Clinic for the necessary sawing.

Once at broken bone central, I grabbed a numbered ticket and made camp. On past experience I knew that there would be an amount of waiting to do. The next customer being ‘served’ was number 52. I was 58, this could take a while I thought but no, soon it was 53’s turn and then 54. 55 came around shortly after and 56 & 57 were just a blur. The numbers were falling like pensioners on ice and I was next!! I quickly dismantled the portable stove, packed away the sleeping bag and deflated the blow-up TV.

The slightly serial killer looking ‘Tony’ popped his head round the door and grunted my number. Like a Thompsons gazelle I leapt up and followed Tony in. Naturally he remembered me…how could he not? It seemed to give him extra impetuous to crack on (or should that be ‘off’) with proceedings. The Plaster Master sat me down, whipped out his power tool and sliced through my cast like a knife through hot butter. It tickled but the speed he was moving meant I was too scared to laugh.

Within seconds I was at the sink rinsing the crusty bits off my newly emancipated appendage. While there I noticed a young boy with his mother. He had also just been freed and we had a quick game of self-harm top trumps. My go first,

“How many bones broken?”

“One”, HAH! I had TWO plus a dislocation and torn ligament.

“Yeh but I’ve broken it twice” he replied

“The same wrist?”

“Yep”.

The little shit had beaten me on a technicality so naturally I did the gentlemanly thing and conceded,

“We’ll call it a draw, bye”.

With that I exited the room and Fracture Clinic. The prospect of not having to see that waiting room again filled me with glee.

I strolled back to Outpatients for a liaison with the reconstruction surgeon. She was very happy with the amount of wrist movement I had but I wasn’t to ‘load it’ for at least six weeks. That meant no biking, no darts and no shooting weapons. DAMMIT. I deposited a small chocolate gift on her desk as a thank you for rebuilding me. Yes, she was "just doing her job" but it’s still nice to say thank you and reward a job well done. She was ending this arm-saga once and for all and that is something that the whole world should be grateful for. Before we parted I had time for a question:

“What happens if I break this again?”

“Eeeerrrrrrrrrrrr”.

Motionless and filled with fear she stated that to her knowledge no one has ever been stupid enough. Only a crazy twat moron of epic proportions would try. Cool I thought, I like being the first!! She’s going to ask about a reconstruction-reconstruction at the next “Hand” meeting and let me know at my 3month review. Until then, it’s probably best if I only fall off on my other side.

I left happy and bound for the physiotherapy department where an appointment would be made to get my oh-so stiff bits bendy again. On my way I popped in to Ward D5 to say thank you to the short stay surgery nurses that had put up with me three times. On my arrival they all legged it. They were probably just trying to hide their emotions at the prospect of not seeing their fave patient again. Yeh, that’ll be it. I really am that awesome. I dished out more chocolately loveliness to the woman on reception. Realizing that I wasn’t checking in for a forth time, she exhaled with relief and smiled. As I departed I saw her skipping up the corridor to the nurses room. I have that effect on people.

As I left the hospital it started to rain. Before today I had a real problem with trying to keep my cast-arm dry but it didn’t matter now. My grin didn’t last long as the light shower quickly turned into a monsoon. After a mad dash to the bus stop I pondered why it was called a ‘light shower’. If anything it was getting darker.

I only had to wait a minute before a WiFi enabled 192 came along. Once relieved of £1.90 and seated I had another gawp at my arm. The once covered up dead skin was drying up fast and falling off in a blizzard of epidermis. I couldn’t stop this malt so I decided to speed things up. Turns out that denim jeans make a good descaler. Who knew? There were only a few stops before I had to get off so I did what I could and then put my jeans back on.

My arm looks more or less normal now apart from the sun tan marks. I look like I’ve just dipped my hand knuckle deep in diarrhea. To save embarrassment I’m just going to tell everyone that I’m a bovine vet with fingerless latex gloves.

The next blog I do will be about getting fit again. My legs have zero miles in them and my hard bits are floppy. Don’t even mention the impending saddle sore! With that in mind though I think a good title for the next epic diatribe should be:

Let the arse hardening begin!!

A Wristed Development.

Exciting News Wrist Fans!!

I thought today was supposed to be a routine post-op cast change but much to my (and your) delight, there was a very nice surprise. 
I should have known something was different because it was raining. Normally when I'm incapacitated there is uninterrupted warm sunshine and the birds sing like a rumbled Stuart Hall. Today though, it was different. It was wet and cold, like a trout with a grudge.
The journey to Stepping Hell began as it always does with a short adventure up the A6 on the WiFi enable 192. The free bandwidth was being battered by the students upstairs who were no doubt downloading important school stuff. Judging by the comments about 'Brazilians' and 'coming first' I can only assume they were studying F1 race drivers. Soon it was my turn to get off.....the bus. I pegged it for cover so as my existing plaster wouldn't get too soggy.
As I made my way onto the hospital grounds I didn't even bother looking at the signs. I knew the layout like the back of my hand. The hand I could still see, obviously. The hand I couldn't see was about to get its first airing in a good few weeks. I got comfy in Outpatient reception until the lovely Michelle called my 
name across a sea of bored and broken faces. 
I was taken into the back room reserved for really brave soldiers. "Do you know why you're here today?" said Michelle in her best, let's get this cracked out so as I can have an early lunch, voice. "Yep" I replied. 
That was a lie. The only information I had was gleamed from reading my post-op notes whilst the anaesthetic wore off from Op3.0.
She explained that today I was indeed going to have a new cast. Yay! I was also going to have my stitches out. Cool! 

The old plaster was only solid on one side so the weapons grade scissors cut through the bandaged side like a well oiled ferret down a drainpipe.

The wounds underneath confirmed what I'd always suspected. I was part Jesus! The sun never shone in front of me because it was too busy shining out of my arse. 

I literally am, Christ on a bike. 

Stigmata aside, the stitches were uber close to my median nerve which seemed to enjoy reminding it was there every time a stitch was pulled.

I might have noodles for lunch.

My request to 'ave a go' at removing the threads was flatly ignored, but once I had been un-crocheted I enquired about the pins still inside me. Michelle had a quick conflab with Ms. Machete Maestro who had performed the surgery and who just happened to be passing at the time. In reality, she was probably just hovering around her favourite patient/deity. It turns out that I don't need anymore operations!!! What I thought were k-wires under my skin are in fact bone anchors very similar to the ones holding my capsule together. The anchors had a good enough bite, so the pins were pulled out during the surgery.
This is indeed good news because it means I only need to spend four more weeks in a cast before I can start fizzeo again. 

Time to get plastered.

Even better news is that I won't have to bore you all with more blogs about my ailing appendages.

See, there is a God. I call him Daddy.

bye bye

Nearly there people!!

You all knew what you were getting into when I started this so it’s too late to back out now. We’re in this together but fear not there is an end game in sight, no really. I know I’ve said that before but rest assured that the adventures of Scaphoid and the Hurty Wrist are barrelling towards a full stop just as I did last October when this Lord of the Rings style epic yawn fest began. What you’re reading now is the penultimate chapter of a book that even Tolstoy would consider wordy. This is a novel that has about as much depth as Ant & Dec, with more twists and turns than snake in a drainpipe. The chief protagonist is a sweet toothed hero in more than just words, there are paragraphs and commas and everything.  The antagonists are gravity, NHS waiting rooms and chocolate biccies.

The latest ramble began on Monday with some interarmular arthroscopy and the slim chance of a permanent fix. I say slim because with the amount of damage I’d already done a quick in and out fix was unlikely despite the fact that the CT scan had come back more or less ‘alright’. I was checked in and made comfy before the endless wave of fans came by to catch a glimpse of their hero. Doctors, nurses, surgeons and an anaesthetist all wanted a piece of my ass. There were endless forms and questions to answer and I had to keep reminding them all that they didn’t need to make up excuses to see me, and that under this epic layer of awesome I was just like they are but a little bit better.  

outpatient fashion baby!

Unsurprisingly some of the nurses remembered me, well, how could they not? They took my post-op food order of sausage, egg and chips with a smile and a “I’ll see what I can do”. I hadn’t eaten all day so as a distraction I parked my bum in the TV room half expecting some show tunes from a drag act but instead was greeted with daytime television and a second floor window in which to jump out of. After minutes of local Beeb programming my thoughts turned to our home Sky TV subscription and how it was now worth every single penny.

the hours of waiting just flew by

 

After a few hours of unconscious viewing it was my turn to head to the theatre. This was another play that I didn’t want to miss or be awake in. The junior meat slicers had yet more questions before wheeling me off to the knocker-outer room. I think my confidence and general awesomeness unsettled them. I don’t think they’re used to patients that aren’t bricking it. The lovely Tina wired me up to the monitors while hippy Rob banged the cannula in. Flexible friend Harry and I compared how bendy our joints were before he slammed in the morphine. This was the weirdest feeling in the world. It resembled someone lightly grabbing my insides and was not unpleasant but way too weird to be nice. A bit like the wife’s attempt at a meringue. Next, the hibernation hooch was injected.  As my eyelids closed I pondered whether my sphincter would still hold back the guff I needed during unconsciousness. Ah well, it was too laa........ zzzzzzzzzzz 

When I woke up I was on my way back up to the ward. I couldn’t smell any sausage, egg or chips, maybe it was already waiting for me. It wasn’t. Yet again all they had in the cupboards was toast and the offer of some hot brown stuff in a cup. I opted for the hot brown stuff labelled coffee. Last time I was here I asked for tea, that was a mistake. That was about as close to tea as North Korea is to Amsterdam at night.

As I munched I perused the medical notes left behind. Blah blah blah, what a hunk, blah blah, awesome this, blah blah epic that, blah blah blah another surgey. Wait! What the fudge!?!

At the start I referred to this as the penultimate chapter because there is one last throw of the dice which will start in a couple of weeks. A finale surgery to end all surgeries and it will be awesomely epic. A Ben Hur style reconstruction of my wrist using bits of me that aren’t being used (i.e. stomach muscles, bollocks, brain etc) to form a new tendon to anchor my absconding osseous matter. My scaphoid’s days of wondering free are now numbered, and when the little fecker has been lassoed with some high level hatcheting the mountain biking will commence once again. Only then will this drivel end and you will be free to get on with your lives.

bye bye..for now

The further adventures of Scaphoid and the Hurty Wrist!

A quick recap: First there was this.

Then this.

And then a bit of this.

 Well, the good news is that my scaphoid is now one again. The titanium screw that once bound the two halves together is now superfluous like the list of ingredients on the back of Findus Beef meal. The bad news is that it’s still not on speaking terms with the lunate bone next to it. My scaphoid is moving and with its new sense of freedom, is on a mission to explore the world and 'find itself'. The ligament that holds the two bones together is being stretched to almost Spanish Inquisition levels thanks to my scaphoid and its new found hippy mantra. A CT scan revealed nothing obviously nasty but the only way to know for sure is to open me up again. Last time that happened there were power tools and screws made from exotic metals. This time there will be arthroscopic wizardry through two 1.9mm holes. One hole will have a camera on a chopstick while the other will carry the tools required. If all looks ok then the ligament will just be cleaned (debridement) to speed up the healing and reign the little blighter back in. The more probable outcome is that my wayward bone will have its gap year cut short. This could mean a whacking great pin holding everything together like a bone kebab, or a cheeky lasso will be constructed from bits of me. This cowboy surgery would involve removing the screw and passing the lasso through the hole before reattaching it to the lunate. Afterwards we would all sit round a campfire and eat beans.

Before any of this can happen I needed a pre-op assessment to make sure I was fit enough. One look at me should have told them that but they insisted on asking me some questions. I was dispatched with my notes to the “Magnolia Suite”. Trades description would have a field day as it is neither magnolia or suite. I would have gone for "Lavender Drab". Fortunately I didn't have to wait very long, I didn't even have time for a proper game of “guess your illness”. I was taken into a room where vital stats were recorded and yet another nurse asked for my phone number under the ruse that she would need it to let me know when the operation was. Being pestered by nympho nurses is something you get used to when you’re as gorgeous as me…..and you've broken something. My height, blood pressure and sub60 BPM pulse were all confirmed as awesome but then came probably the most scariest part. 
I had to be weighed!!! 
It is essential that an accurate weight be obtained in order for the knocker-outer lady to work out how much sleepy juice to administer. A plaster cast, erratic exercise regime, bad weather and Christmas had each taken their toll and my winter coat was still very much evident. Just like the mirror at home, the scales didn't lie. Since my failed argument with gravity last October I have stacked on an extra stone and a bit, and trying to ignore it was like trying to pretend the drunk, sky high fruit loop in the Post Office queue wasn't there.

Over an epic lunch of crisps, chocolate and cake I have decided it’s time to commence “Operation: Put The Fork Down”. If I am to regain my honed athletic physique I must conquer Professor Biscuits in his secret under ground base, otherwise known as “the jar in the kitchen cupboard”. Time and time again he has returned despite numerous attempts to drown him and eat him in boiling hot tea or coffee. This time, his fete will be sealed in the belly of two more fearsome creatures that will tear Professor Biscuits and his army limb from limb in a psychotic armageddon of baked chocolatety loveliness. Behold the minions of which I speak!

                           

With a tail wind my next blog will be post-op and I'll have some lovely new scars for the chicks to dig! Heck, I might even be lighter....

Hurty Wrist Fans...I Have News & More Pics!!!

It's been nearly two weeks since the good lady surgeon Sweeney Todd sliced and diced my broken appendage. It was time then for a return visit to the Fracture Clinic on the promise of more growing old slowly in reception. I started my journey with what I thought was ample time to make the short bus trip up the road to the hospital. What I hadn't bargained on was the near Biblical traffic jam on the A6. I was convinced that the non-movingness could only have been caused by something which would make everyone in Stockport simaltaneously jump into their cars. I pondered what it might be and the openning of a MegaPoundShop with free hog roast, beer and bouncy castle for the kids where the Stone Roses were putting on a free gig leapt to mind, but it turns out the council are just fannying around with the road near Stepping Hill. I've seen evolution move faster. 

Amazingly, I arrived only a few minutes late. I've just no idea why it mattered so much for me to be there on time. I knew what was coming and I'd brought my travel pillow, ration pack, a change of clothes and the complete works of Tolstoy in readiness. Actually it was more browniness but it doesn't matter, I was here for the long haul and sure enough the NHS didn't disappoint. 

To maximise the experience, the reception is a complete wifi dead spot. Surfing the t'internet was painfully slow but I'd downloaded several games to keep me amused and sure enough the first forty minutes just flew by. 

On minute number forty one I was summoned by one of the old deers behind the desk. At last, progress! alas, not. She ordered me to the X-ray reception with 'a note' and a smile that made Stalin look like Ronald McDonald. I was looking down her half moon barrels at yet another yawn fest but I didn't mind, it was a change of scenery.

I wandered up the corridor and passed over my note. After confirming my name, rank, and serial number I parked my arse on yet another fart stained piece of moulded plastic the NHS call 'a chair'. Surprisingly I didn't have to wait too long before my name was called, but don't worry, there was enough time for Commandant Deirdre to mandate my mobile be changed to a not-on position. Cow. 

After I was zapped I was dispatched back to the Fracture Clinic reception for more waiting where the phone went straight back on and the ether evaporated faster. Eventually it was something resembling my name that was belted out across reception in the key of bored flat. We were knocking on an hour and twenty but this was now my time with what appeared to be the only actual professional in the hospital that day. It was time to go into one of the little rooms and see what damage had been undone. The X-rays came up on the screen and with my good hand I began snapping pics left, right and centre and then left again because the flash wasn't on.

As the images were explained, a nurse began to cut off the old plaster. The operation had in fact gone perfectly,(dear diary), and all looked good. The screw holding my scaphoid together was doing its job.

Now available at ScrewFix

One other injury I wasn't fully aware of was the acute perilunate dislocation variant. The fix for this and my wayward radius is the insertion of two metal rawplug people. I have named them Bert and Ernie. 

Can you tell me how to get to Seaseme Street?

When the plaster came off I noticed that my wrist had shrunk in diameter. This freaked me out somewhat but apparently if you don't use something at all for three weeks it gets smaller. This is a generic statement that applies to every part of me.

Chick! Please form an orderly digging queue.

After my five minutes were up I returned to reception to get a new plaster. By this time I was the only person left but I still had to take a ticket and wait my turn for the plasterer. It seemed a bit frivolous but I'm not one to break protocol, (just bones). I still had to wait but the end to this visit was finally in sight. My plaster master was a guy called Tony. He was judge gypsum - the dressing director. We got yapping and I asked him how many casts he'd made. He stopped trying to work it out when he got to 170,000. Now that's job satisfaction.....or just mental, I haven't quite worked it out. Either way, he'd clearly done this before. 

                             

                                         Behold!.....I wish I could!!

After encasing me for my third time in as many weeks I was free to leave. In four weeks I would be back to have it off with power tools, (sorry for the mental image), how exciting! What wasn't exciting was the journey home. The traffic was still jammed. I've seen tectonic plates shift quicker. Fortunately I did get home where apon the family atteneded to me with benevolence and compassion. They put up a brave front by pretending absolutely nothing important had just happened. That must have been hard for them. The kids knew that a sense of normality and familiarity would relax me and with that in mind jumped on me with the same gusto and vigor as if my arm wasn't in plaster at all. Sometimes I think they care too much. 

To be cont'd.....in four weeks.

That's me screwed.

Until 11am yesterday I had a closed intra-articular fracture of the distal radius AND a fracture of the proximal scaphoid. I also had the pics to prove it. Today I've got a really hurty arm with a headless titanium screw in it. The fun began at 7:30am yesterday when I was admitted to the ward for people that can't ride mountain bikes properly.

A room with a view.

I was third on the list so I had a wait before 'Operation Frankenstein-hand' began. I was nil-by-mouth which was the nurses way of telling me to shut up. However, I was allowed to put in a food order for post-op. I asked for sausage, beans, chips, fried bread and a mug-o-tea five sugars when ya ready daaaaarling. Nurse Laura said that they were all out of everything, otherwise that would have been fine. All she had left was toast and some brown stuff that resembled tea or coffee, she wasn't sure. The food though would have to wait until well after I'd been cut-n-shut and even more after all the form filling. 
Nurse after nurse, doctor after doctor and even the hand job surgeon wanted to yap about the procedure and more importantly  me. They can't have all fancied me....could they? Even the nice lady surgeon freely admitted I had "acute scaphoid". Some of the questions asked were very repetitive and my answers might have gone a tad off topic as my eagerness to crack on with proceedings grew.

"Any allergies?", "hard work"
"When did you eat last?", "are you asking me out?"
"How many units of alcohol do you drink?", "I'm a Lambrini girl, I just wanna have fun"
"Any hearing aids?", "pardon!" (yes, even doctors still fall for this one)
"Any caps?", "yeh they keep my head warm"
"....or crowns?", "you may call me king!"
"Any piercings?", "kinky!"
"Have you got any internal metalwork?", this was my favourite question by a long way and the answer required a thick monotone Austrian accent, "are you Sarah Connor?"

The silliest part was having an arrow drawn on the arm which was to have the surgery. You'd have thought the whacking great back slab paster cast from A&E might have been a clue but it's probably best to make sure. 

This'll be the arm then!

This seasons must have fashion in short stay surgery is a white patterned strappy backless number with white trim ....

.....and unmatching disposable slippers in a variety of colours from brownish landlord magnolia to landlord magnolia with a hint of brown. Anything else was the models own.

Three and a half hours of nothing but aircon noise and no kids just flew by. It was like heaven and I'd forgotten what it was like to be bored.

 Mr.Spock are you listening to me??

 

.............I'm all ears captain.

 Then came time for a quick wee and into pre-op for yet more questions and some proper drugs. I was wired up and joking away with a BPM in the low seventies.
"Those blue caps and green gowns, you can't all think they're fashionable?" I chirped. Knocker-outer lady had heard enough, I didn't even see her stick the sleepy stuff in. Either way, next thing I know it's an hour and twenty minutes later and my wrist is a tad sore despite the fact that I still had a fair bit of paracetamol  neurophen, morphine and 'general' still circulating inside me. Nurse Laura made good her promise of toast and hot brown liquid. I even got biccies which are only reserved for really brave soldiers. By the time I'd come round a bit more it was early afternoon and time to go home.  

Ooh this stings a bit...even on morphine!

The conveniently named Dr. Late-Twenties-Iranian-Possibly-Turkish-but-Quite-Fit had already prescribed some drugs to take home, which was nice. I added her to the list of admirers. Wifecabs arrived shortly after to take me and my codeine stash home but I'm not done with the NHS just yet..oh no! I'm back in a couple of weeks to the fracture clinic for more endless waiting around with the old, fat and broken. If robo-hand doesn't take then there's talk of bone grafts. How exciting! The cast comes off in six weeks but there's no more biking until FEBRUARY 2013.

To be continued.....but let's hope NOT