Saturday night wasn't too pleasant. I was finding it difficult to put one foot in front of the other, getting up stairs was a case of one at a time and I had to devise a way of getting in and out of bed without hurting myself. Getting into the shower, also a problem, although I'm only ever in pain when I lift my leg too high. By and large, like now, when I'm sitting or lying down, there's nothing in the way of pain. Perhaps a dull ache, but that's all, and each day I seem to be making progress. Each day I can do something I couldn't do the day before. In other words, thank the Lord, it's a minor injury and that, of course, is why I took myself down to the Minor Injuries Clinic. The last time I was at the MIC was back in 2005
|The Minor Injuries Unit, Purley, Surrey...|
Anyway, I'm digressing. I drove down to the MIC, sat around for 20 minutes or so reading an old edition of Hello! magazine – about Peter Andre and his new wife, about Ron Wood and his new wife or girlfriend and then I whizzed through an edition of Country Life and checked out the big-money gaffs with their private beaches and swimming pools.
There was only a handful of people waiting to see the doc and soon my name was called. An Indian doctor sat at his computer screen and I launched into my diatribe about falling off the bike on Saturday and my knee swelling up to the size of a Navelina orange and so on and so forth. I rolled up my left trouser leg, revealing my swollen knee, he prodded about a bit and then told me to take a few Ibuprofen (to reduce the swelling). I knew that he was going to prescribe pills. That's what doctors do, so I'll probably leave it for a day or two and then pop a Nurofen before bed. He reckons a few days will see me alright.
I'm still limping a bit, but, as I said, it's getting better by the day because I've been resting it, taking life easy and so on; it's the best policy and I don't really do enough looking after myself. I'm going to start now, though. Not that this minor scrape has in any way changed my perspective on life, it's just that I do rush around, I do stay up too late, I am tired all the time as a result and it's got to stop.
With nothing better to do, I completed the Waitrose Weekend magazine crossword, found the correct food-related word and sent off my application for the £100 prize. I never win and don't expect to this week.
Here's a joke for you, courtesy of Weekend magazine: What's a monkey's favourite pudding? Answer: Meringueatan. Geddit? Meringueatan? Sounds like Orangutan? No?