Mum keeps telling me I must be patient. It will take time but it's only four weeks now until my appointment at the hospital when I might be told I can go walkabout again.
The title of my post refers to an earlier one after I came out of hospital last year and was pondering my recovery. It feels as if history (albeit fairly recent history) is repeating itself, only this time its bodily recuperation that is required and I am not a very patient person.
The plaster cast is off so I can at least have a bath now but I am still on crutches or in a wheelchair (yes - Mum got a wheelchair for a remarkable bargain from a mobility shop in town); crutches at home and wheelchair out of doors. I am perfectly aware that there are far worse situations to be in but it is still maddening. And to top off the inactivity, it seems that having been starved of oxygen whilst beneath an inch of whatever it is modern multi-coloured plaster casts are made of, the hairs on my left leg have felt rather a strong longing for the sun on their follicles. Without a word of a lie, I waxed my legs just a couple of days ago and already the little buggers are back, six feet long and crying joyously "We're free, we're free! Here comes the sun, little darling!"
My birthday went off recently mainly without a hitch, although for a famous tourist attraction, the museum my sister took me to for a day out really ought to have better wheelchair access. Bravo, Museum of Science and Industry, Manchester, for having ramps all over the place, but could you put lifts in the buildings the ramps lead to please? The main building had one, yes, but unless we just couldn't find it, there wasn't one in the electrical building or a way down to the bigger engines in the engine building.
Gah!!! Somebody pass me the dairy-free white chocolate buttons while I console myself.
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