Pain Pain Pain

I have to confess to thoroughly looking forward to my visit to A & E this week. I always see something morbidly interesting and, as previously discovered, it has a tendency to reaffirm how easy and painless my life is - or was pre-accident.

This week it's a rasta whose metal plate has broken inside his wrist. *Toes curl, face adopts position of fear and lemon sucking qualities* Double ouch.

The poor guy is holding his misshapen looking arm out to the stony faced receptionist going: 'I can't work maaan. Me hand is totally useless maaan'.

When it is my turn to be seen I am told that the bone has healed. This is as I'd expected - for the past two weeks friends have had to prevent me from cutting the damn thing off myself. I inadvertently soaked it in the shower and since then it's been cloying and stinking, my peeling skin flaking off in scales and scattering over my keyboard.

The doc tells me it's time to be free of the plaster and cuts it off. This is the moment I've been waiting for. Excitedly, like an eager young virgin, I tear at the bandage, fingers fumbling to hastily liberate my wasted little arm.

And as soon as it's free I feel like it should be back in. It's so SMALL and frail - it feels like if I lifted a tea cup it may just break off.

I gingerly uncurl my wrist from it's limp-handed position...it crunchingly opens joint by joint, reluctant to the last.

The Doc asks me to open my hand as if to receive a low five, keeping my elbow firmly tucked to my side. Oh fuckety ow. He makes the prayer position and bids me to imitate. Fucking hell.

I cannot do much with this so called hand. It hurts to lie in bed. I still cannot properly make the prayer position, and any high fives which come my may have to be received with a grimace.

It's totally fucking useless maan.