So as well as coming to terms with the end of my nascent career as a stunt-scooter ace, I'm also getting used to the idea of not carrying heavy optics around for a while. Unfortunately wielding them is not among the recommended recovery therapies. I've tried training children to hold the lens, but there's just too much camera shake. So the six weeks which lie ahead with one arm in a sling are going to be seriously restrictive, and I suppose I'd just better get used to it.
All this said it's been a positive brush with the NHS. Since a bout of procreation early in the century requiring regular hospital visits, we haven't had much call to use it in recent year but when you really need it, you're certainly glad of it. OK the food wasn't up to much and even with morphine I struggled to sleep with Elephant Man snoring on one side and Rowley Birkin with Tourette's on the other, involuntarily hurling abuse at the staff as he was. But the bits which mattered - like not waiting hours in A&E with busted bones, and the part which involved scalpels - I can't fault. Best of all it was all free, though as a self-imposed injury, I felt I should have paid some kind of one-off charge as a token gesture of my appreciation. A Pratfall Tax, if you will.
Not going out is already doing my head in, but on the upside the medics have made clear I should also avoid hoovering, ironing and tidying up for the next couple of months, and camping until summer 2016 at the earliest. It's true, I have a note.
|Won't be busting any moves on this any time soon either|