Still alive (just)

The first, and possible the last, of an irregular series of posts because I'm completely not in the mood to do any writing.

It is now 6 days since Shihan Michael Holden, of the Chesterfield dojo put me, a unbelted novice with a 'new boy' who happened to be a green or blue belt wushu but novice jitsu, told us to practice four defences against roundhouse punch and left us to go to teach the four orange belts.

All went well for a while until newbie chap tried a Ouchi Garumai on me (inner sweep throw) but had his foot in front of mine, stopping it from moving. Cue many yells from me.

This alerted Shihan who came over, felt it, pronounced it a sprain and packed it with ice. He then helped me to slide to a corner of the room so that I could sit until the end of the class, while he showed us the technique of drawing the sword (which I knew already, thanks to Sheffield Senseis John and Steve). After class I was excused bowing out.

Then they bandaged my ankle and let me phone Kat, when I cried and begged to be taken to hospital. They pronounced it broken and took two hours to give me a temporary cast.

Tuesday passed in pain and delirium.

Wednesday morning Kat borrowed Sue's car (one of ours is dead) and took me in to get a 'full, weight-bearing pot'. New X-ray.

The doctor says: "When did you last eat or drink?"

"8:30," I said. "A cup of tea but no food."

"Good," he said. "You'll be having surgery this afternoon then."

Sure enough I was admitted and woke up several hours later in a hospital bed. Kat alternately grinning and worried. Luisa turned up later and they watched me fall asleep and wake up until they had to leave to collect Aimee from work.

Thus followed my worst night in years, where I slept for five minutes and then woke again all night long, with nurses appearing to take bloods pressures and heart rate every hour.

Thursday morning I was given sludge to drink and Kat phoned. Hearing her voice, and her drag of a cigarette, I was sick all over myself, rang for a nurse to help but wasn't assisted until 3 hours later.

I was allowed to go home later that afternoon, still sick from the morphine but determined to stay off cigarettes as well. This means that tea tastes of grey. I am thus off tea.

Kat suggested that my PC be moved from my desk to the coffee table. Rick unravelled the wires and transferred it across but it never worked again. Hugh examined it on Friday and pronounced it motherboard dead.

Saturday I browsed e-buyer, amazon, Dell and ebay, and bid for a machine on the latter. £345 bought me a mid range gaming machine, £200 of which I had already in my paypal from the ebay sales, which Luisa has been lumbered with fetching from the loft and packing up.

I am utterly miserable and bad-tempered. I was a chain-smoking, tea drinking writer who watched videos and did jiu-jitsu and kobudo. Now I an a sofa-bound couch potato who cannot write, can't stand tea, doesn't smoke or drink or watch videos. I have alienated everyone who cared in the slightest about me and even reduced Kat to tears.

I hate my life.

People assure me that in three months it'll be 'back to normal' though.