Saturday, 24 May 2014


As I write, I am in the unique position where I have no kids or husband in the house, and it is Half Term.  This is not only unusual, but temporary.  

It’s quite nice to have a bit of R&R, because today I am feeling tired.  And if I’m honest, a bit sore and rather strangely woozy.  I had done something to my Achilles Tendon about a year ago and it had been getting progressively worse and worse, swelling up each time I walked excessively, and sometimes if I just walked.  I hadn’t realised how limiting it had become, until friends started to comment on my limp, and I couldn’t manage a day out even if it was just sightseeing. I got a call a couple of days ago, the consultant radiologist would come in especially and try out a relatively new procedure on my torn Achilles and see if it would work.

The consultant radiologist (we will call him Dr X to save any blushes) sat in front of me in his room in which there was an abundance of screens, and a very quiet nurse who bustled around a trolley on which there were a number of needles.  Now I am not afraid of needles, or injections or anything like that, but I have to confess that I am a little wary of consultants who seem to be all knowing and so very very intelligent. G, who hates needles, had opted to sit outside and be my driver (very wise).  Dr X explained the procedure.  What he proposed doing was to inject the Achilles sheath with saline solution, creating a little saline bag to cushion the wounded part.

Well, that sounded good and perfectly understandable – apart from the injecting into an already very sore part of my body.  That was very much Not Good.  So I told him.  He then said airily that I was not to worry, and he filled up a syringe with local anaesthetic to take the edge off the pain. As I lay back waiting for the pain relief, he suddenly swore loudly.  He had stabbed himself with the needle.  Right through his disposable glove.  The nurse looked concerned. I looked very concerned.  Dr X looked really concerned as blood began to drip.

‘Hurry!’ I said, all protocol out of the window.  ‘Get on with it before your thumb numbs!’ He scrubbed up, refilled a new syringe and worked quickly as the nurse and I tried not to giggle, all panic forgotten.  And I stood up afterwards and felt marvelous.  He sent me off with warnings not to overdo it for at least 4 weeks and I wished him well as he blushed a deep, deep red.

And so it is that I sit here, where there is no noise apart from the rain spattering on a previously dry patio, making huge sequin shaped blobs that soon merge to become a shiny mirror broken only by the ensuing hailstones.  And I kind of like it. 

And I point and flex my newly repaired foot, and I feel proud of myself, despite feeling tired, and a little woozy.