Notes from the sofa

Try using the keyboard and restricting yourself to no movement with your right hand. If you are right-handed. You would be snarling too. I went to the doctor yesterday. That was the Event of the Day. You remember how I was joking about how exciting my life was 2 weeks ago?? Huh?? That was the HIGH LIFE, people. Now? I am considering counting the grains of sand in a bottle for entertainment.

Where was I? The doctor. I saw my own doctor this time, thank heavens, and I trust her, which is always good. She is very tiny. Very. I feel like a giant when I see her and I am only about 1.65m tall (about 5ft6-7inches). She looked at me quizzically when I walked in and I sat down and announced that I was wounded. She grinned. She had read the notes on the computer. She listened as I related my total panic attack when I thought I was about to expire, and suggested she examine me herself.

So I removed my clothing with all the grace of a hippopotamus in a changing cubicle at a dress shop. My pullover got stuck round my neck, and when I ripped it off, my earrings,butterfly things and reading glasses which I had forgotten on top of my head, shot in 5 different dirctions all over the surgery. Much muttering and crawling ensued, and I did notice she was trying not to laugh. I do believe the gold chain I wear was hooked over my left ear at this point.

So I stood up for her to make sure the heart and lungs were indeed functioning, and looked at her down there. I mean, she is TINY. And felt as ungainly as said hippo. But she prodded and poked, and I screeched obligingly when she managed to hit the torn muscle 3 times in swift succession. And then she wanted to take my BP. Excuse me, I was still trying to breathe after being in pain. And she took my pulse at the same time. BAD idea. So we started all over once I had taken several calming breaths and stopped muttering about evil sadistic women who caused untold anguish in their poor defenceless patients and considered humming. Her mouth was definitely twitching. I was watching.

Second attempt was reassuringly reasonable. And I looked at her and said - see - I am fine. I am not sick. Just a little broken. And she announced that I am indeed not fine at all, and would not be working this week. And that if we were not starting school holidays this Friday for 2 weeks, I would be off work for at least 3 weeks. The muscle is torn. Not just inflamed, and it takes time to heal. And no, there is no pill or magic potion to fix it faster. I asked.

By now the head was stuck getting back into the pullover ....what is it with clothes which go on perfectly easily in the morning and then refuse to behave when in the presence of people like doctors? So my words were a trifle muffled, and the out of control hair had decided to flop right out of the slide I had used to tie it back. The slide lodged itself in the back of my jeans. Give me strength. I was a picture of elegance and excellent grooming as I emerged from the neck line.

Anyway. Taking a deep breath. She said she was writing a doctor's note for work. I have never had one of these in my life. And she told me I am supposed to do nothing. NOTHING. I am supposed to sit and read and watch tv. And sleep. And go insane. I glared at her and said..."Have you ANY idea how dire daytime tv is?" and she threw back her head and roared with laughter. I am so glad I amused her. I informed her that I would probably be back next week for medication for the insanity which was clearly about to set it.

So I can't sew, or bake, or clean, or iron, or shop, or drive, or garden, or cut things, or quilt, or stitch, or sweep, or carry or rearrange cupboards, or paint, or decorate, or ANYTHING. And I am lacking some slaves to order about. And I am not supposed to use the hand on the keyboard. I need to be amused. I feel it is everyone's duty to entertain me.

However, I do want to be fixed. Sigh.