Broken Leg Blues Part II: Cider With Whoosie

Nil by mouth – three of the most dispiriting words in the English Language.  ‘And no sucking the sponge either!’ scolded the nurse as she handed me a little cup of pink liquid so that I could moisten my lips, simultaneously moving the water jug out of my (very limited) reach.  

The hours slipped by like coarse-grained sandpaper.  I’d had the presence of mind to stuff the nearest book to hand – ‘Cider With Rosie’ – into my bag as I left home the day before, but given that I felt as if I’d downed half the contents of the title, I did some desultory Facebooking instead, wondering idly what this month’s mobile bill was going to be like and how my other ankle was going to like being hopped on when it was bruised and swollen in its own right.

(Yep, part of that bruise is a tattoo.)

Then I was prepped ready to go to theatre, not because anyone had any idea when my operation was scheduled but because ‘they have a habit of just turning up’.  Rather more excitingly, ‘my’ anaesthetist materialised to go through some paperwork with me.  ‘I’m your anaesthetist,’ he said.  This, apparently, was A Sign.  

And lo, blue-overalls appeared with a trolley and off we went to theatre.  ‘Anything you want to ask me?’ asked a different anaesthetist to the one who’d been up to the ward.  ‘I’ve got arthritis and they told me not to bring my special pillows down because I might never see them again,’ I babbled, ‘and I’m really scared of coming round on my back with my head turned to one side.  I can't move my head unless I use my hands and it feels like I’m paralysed and it’s really scary.’  ‘Ah, torticollis cervical spondylosis’ he said, reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t let your head fall off.’  And I knew I’d be fine because he knew exactly what I was talking about even if I didn’t have a clue. The operation would probably be OK too. 

And it was. A bit of desultory moaning about the parking situation at the hospital between surgeon and anaesthetist (I live in the Residents’ Controlled Parking Zone) and the next thing I knew someone was calling my name and my head was miraculously still attached to my neck and facing forward with no apparent support.  

Then I was back on the ward and my partner and son turned up and we did the Guardian Quick Crossword and I ate the food they brought me and puked up in a bed pan.

Frosty the Snowman comes out in sympathy

And I did a lot of thinking about how I’d barely jaunted and barely written a word the last few weeks, what with Christmas and having to get the house ready to sell, and how I had been on such a roll last weekend that I’d contemplated swinging a sickie from work so as not to lose momentum, and how I’d decided I couldn’t possibly bunk off because I’m rubbish at lying and the universe would punish me, and how it had punished me anyway just for thinking about pretending to be ill by ensuring that I would be off for the next six weeks but completely incapable of doing all the things I need to do to get the house on the market.  And how I’d have to delegate more rather than do, and how I would probably end up writing some poems after all.  

Broken Leg Blues Part I: Extreme Doorstepping

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a house is always put on the market in far better condition than the one in which the inhabitants have been living.  Thus the last few weeks have seen little jaunting, barely any writing, and much cleaning/gardening/decorating/minor building works/wiring in of smoke alarms, etc (not all of it by me). 

Back in the day, I moved house five times in four years, each time with a new baby or pregnancy, and again, after a hiatus of six years, when my children were aged 8, 6, 5 and 2.  So I reckoned this time, nearly 18 years later, it would be a doddle. 

I reckoned without Ted, my border collie, who has proved keen to help me paint and now has green Go Faster stripes.

I reckoned without falling off the doorstep and breaking my leg.  In two places.

 As luck would have it, Cathy Over The Road’s friend Maggie was visiting when my ankle gave out and I crashed to the ground, so I had two nurses to escort me to hospital, and two young and rather fetching policemen (who were on the spot to stop motorists driving through the timed no entry sign on our road) to manhandle me into Cathy’s car. (I expect they’re used to that sort of thing in their line of work.)

As luck would have it also, our brand new super hospital is a quarter of a mile down the road and A&E wasn’t too busy at half four in the afternoon. 

I’ve always had weak ankle joints and tend to sprain my right one every couple of years or so, so going to Radiology with an ankle like a balloon is a fairly regular occurrence for me.  However, I could tell by the look on the nurse’s face, post (agonisingly painful) X-ray, that this time was different.  ‘The doctors have yet to look at it,’ she said, ever so slightly reprovingly, ‘but I can tell you you’ve broken your tib and fib so badly you’re going to have to have an operation.’  But I have paintwork to touch up with Dulux Eggshell Barley Twist if it’s still available, I wanted to cry.  I need to plant up troughs and pots to put around my pond so prospective viewers don’t stand on the wonky paving slabs and fall in.  But I could tell neither she nor the universe would be persuaded.

‘There’s a rumour swirling around outside that you got yourself in here with no pain relief,’ remarked one of the doctors in the plastering room, while the other one winced at my X-ray. 

‘I think I must have a high pain threshold?’ I said doubtfully as they handed me the gas and air.

‘Yes, you must,’ he said. ‘Now push against me as hard as you like but don’t stop breathing the gas.’

‘Where’s my baby?!’ I wailed a minute or so later. ‘I always get a baby when it hurts this much.’

‘You’ve got a beautiful plaster cast instead,’ said the second doctor. ‘Neatest one I’ve ever done, actually. And they'll be cutting it open tomorrow to operate!’

 But it wasn’t the same. To make matters worse, I didn’t even have a decent story to tell.  Falling off a doorstep in Filton is hardly the same as falling off a yacht in Greece which is how my friend Claire sustained a similar injury.  ‘Yeah, you’re going to have to work on that,’ everyone advised me.

There was some delay and much pushing of my trolley around the hospital before a bed was located.  Having witnessed its construction for that last eight years, it was interesting to have so comprehensive a tour of its interior. Eventually I found a berth and fell into a thankful sleep, only to be awakened with good news - more morphine – and bad news – I had to transfer to another ward. I finally docked in at Level 3 Gate 7b Bed 38 – whatever happened to Cotswold and Mendip wards? – which made me feel as if I’d checked into the departure lounge for an unknown destination with no guarantee of coming back. 

Photography and the Significant Loveliness Ratio

I have a new camera and it's a digital SLR!  (If you don't know what SLR stands for, it's Significant Loveliness Ratio.)  (And it isn't exactly new, it's new to me. But it kind of feels like an old friend already.)

Here is my first attempt at taking photo.  Somewhat out of focus.  Hmmm. Maybe Dru was a little too close.

Delia's looking grand, though.  

And Mr B has scrubbed up well.  

The next thing to do was to go up onto the Downs and try it out properly. Whereupon it rained.  

And hailed. 

And the car windows steamed up.

There was a brief respite - just long enough for an ice cream at the Sea Walls ...

... secure in the knowledge that I'll be forced to go on a jaunt very very soon to give it a proper try-out, eh, Ted?

A Jaunt to Sharpness and bark-bark-Berkeley

Ach du lieber Gott, I am way behind with my bloggerei about my jaunterei.  Must rectifei.

It’s almost three weeks since I asked Ted where he wanted to go for our first proper walk of 2011.  He said ‘Sharpness and bark-bark-Berkeley’, so that’s where we went.  It suited me, anyhow – an easy, six-mile stroll on the Severn flood plain to test my ribs and hip and find out how they were mending. 

Having passed the museum to Edward Jenner, local pioneer of the smallpox vaccine, our first stop was Berkeley’s Church of St Mary the Virgin, which has a very odd-looking exterior as its tower is situated the opposite side of the churchyard from the rest of the building, this having been done for strategic reasons, apparently. 

I am a bit of a late convert when it comes to Berkeley Castle, having spent a good 40 years assiduously avoiding the place, after visiting at an impressionable age and being terrified by stories of a jester falling from the balcony to his death and the gruesome fate of people imprisoned in the dungeon at the bottom of a 36-foot deep shaft in the incongruously well-appointed King’s Gallery.  (I’m relieved that no one took it upon themselves to reveal to my five-year-old self how the hapless Edward II allegedly met his end.) I love it now, although in mid-March it was still closed for winter and Ted and I only saw it from adjacent fields. 

The church itself is exceptional, its most striking feature being the survival of such a lot of its mediaeval paintwork. 

I especially liked this corbel of two female heads surmounted by a toad, a sermon in stone to reinforce the message that gossip is poisonous …  

  

… and this Tudor rose, believed to relate to Edward VI. 

Here, the intricately carved tomb of Thomas Berkeley, the 5th Baron, and his wife Katherine.

After leaving the church, we wandered along Berkeley Pill towards the estuary.  It was a bright day and the sun had real warmth in it, so after we had negotiated a field of cows the size of caravans, I sat down in a patch of teasels and composed an ode to my faithful and fearless(!) canine companion. 

There was loads of mistletoe in the trees.  Why do we only put it up at Christmas?  The world would be a better place with more snogging.

Eventually we reached the Severn, with sunny views up to the dock at Sharpness, and a gloomier vista downstream towards Berkeley nuclear power station, with Oldbury in the distance.  The post-earthquake problems at Fukushima might be half a world away, but there was a catastrophic tsunami in this estuary in 1607.  The next one promises to be far worse, thanks to our idiocy.

   

The return leg of our walk took us inland from Sharpness to Berkeley.  As is so often the case, the very last section, just prior to getting back to the car, involved negotiating the muddiest lane of the day.  I was rather more careful, and thus considerably less besmirched, than Ted, who needed a stern rubbing down with the old towel I keep in the boot for just such eventualities. 

All in all, though, my ribs and hips held up pretty well and it was a good opening to our jaunting season.  Looking forward to many more forays over the year.