Had a hospital appointment today to have my ankle checked out by the consultant who operated on it. It seems to be healing a little slowly, but this probably isn't surprising considering how badly fcuked it was after the car accident - 'smashed to smithereens' was how the consultant described it. He said it might need bone graft surgery at some point, but for now he's going to leave it alone and see if the bone grows any more on its own. I was more than a little relieved by this, as the thought of further surgery and another spell in hospital is not an appealing one. I have to go back for a further appointment to check on progress in December.
Met or saw no fewer than five guys who had been on the hospital ward at the same time as me. I guess I shouldn't be too surprised at this, considering the length of time I spent in the fcuking place. Four of these guys were good blokes, but the fifth was a complete crabbit old bastard. We'll call him 'Mr C.', just like that piss-poor rapper from The Shamen. And we all know what the 'C' stood for there.
He wasn't the worst, though. Not by a long shot. During my stay, I had to put up with junkies, alkies, manic depressives, mental old blokes wandering around naked at night (and sometimes crashing into my bed - which is no fun with a leg in traction), a nutter who pissed into his soup bowl, and loonies who insisted on getting up at 5 in the morning and waking everyone else up in the process. Bastards, every one of them.
Back to the hospital tomorrow for physio. For reasons too boring to go into, the hydrotherapy hasn't happened yet, and is unlikely to happen for a while. So, for the forseeable future, I'm stuck with land-based torture instead. Joy. I only hope they don't want me to go back for a second appointment this week, because frankly, I can't be arsed.
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