Now dear reader, let me paint you a picture. Yes, this is another broken arm tale. And its the last one in this saga of pain. At least I hope so. For I am really tired with all these shenanigans surrounding my battered arm. Its time to just get better now, and stop playing silly buggers.

So on with the story. Equipped with a nice, although bent, black cast, my girlfriend and a hospital appointment, I made my merry way into the fracture clinic for what I hoped to be the last time. Today would be the day that they would tell me my bone structure is impeccable, and I really ought to go into modelling with these cheeks. Now I am unsure if I mentioned this before, but my cast was bent when it was put on. This caused great pain, but the so called “expert” assured me it was fine and it shall stop my wrist from flopping about like a fish. Me, being naive, believed him. Of course, he must know what he’s doing. They are called doctors after all and not idiots.

Low and behold, once the x-rays came through, they found my mangled appendage to be healing skew. This came as a great surprise to absolutely no one. Just looking at the cast, and seeing the lovely shade of yellow and blue my sausage like fingers had morphed through during the week, you could tell something was a miss. Then the dreaded word – Operation – was mentioned. Oh, no, no, no. I have work to do, people to see and cats to swing. It simply will not do. So sorry, must be going. Alas, I was not allowed to make my escape. The now the very unkind doctor explained to me that the lovely surgeons would have to insert a metal rod into my arm to push the bones back into place. Me? With metal? In my arm? Unless it was a retractable claw like Wolverine, this simply would not do.

Of course by this stage, I am reduced to a blubbery mess of scared and nerves and panic. Poor Simone. She managed to keep it all together, even though I suspect she was feeling how I was looking. For her precious, amazing boyfriend needed to go under the knife. The idea of scars and metal made her all excited, but this was just a ruse to hide her fear. I am sure of it. And don’t you say anything different.

The operation was scheduled for the very next day. What joy. The benefits of living in a first world country had come back to bite me solidly in the back of me. Work would not be happy, I imagined, but in all honesty, what could be done? For my arm would look odd from now until I broke it again. And that was not in my calendar for at least the next 6 months. I was told I would not be allowed to eat, and not having had lunch in order to make this now fatal appointment, I was rather hungry. And nervous. And together they did not make a good combination. But to my pride, I managed to keep myself in check, and the doctor and floor clean. Come back tomorrow, don’t call us, we’ll call you, don’t be nervous, oh and don’t eat, were all the instructions I was left with as I made my out of the hospital on very wobbly knees.

The first stop was straight to McDonalds. If I was going to die, I better at least have some delicious cardboard and chocolate in my system. And if I eat, then they might smell it on me the next day and send me away – operationless. That night I spent walking, also known as pacing, and muttering “no” to myself. My cat thought it was fun game, until she became concerned about my mental health. Then she quietly hid all the sharp cutlery and sneaked out the window.

Fast forward to the next day. I packed my bag nice and early, and waited. And waited. Was the phone connected? Did my mobile have signal? What number did I give the hospital to ring? Did I have underwear? Who would feed my cat? Can I run away? And I waited. Eventually, the hospital called me after lunch, and informed me I had 20 minutes to get the hospital or they would have to reschedule me. How delightful.

My dear reader. All one of you. Tonight this is where the story ends. I shall be continuing with this story, as it is a dream of mine to write a MAMOTH blog entry, and I have a certain feeling in my water about this one.

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