Lots and lots and lots of thoughts. Most of them scribbled on pages of a note book I've kept close to my chest (and stressed deeply that he'd find - a big reason for starting this damn fool thing). Most of them nearly illegible for being written with my left hand when I'm naturally right handed. Didn't know that about me before this.
Thought one. Never allow yourself to be operated on by a surgeon who doesn't share your sense of humour. Mine didn't appear to be amused when I joked as I went under that 'at least I'd broken it accidentally', which I like to think is why the second op (the one after the first quick job when the swelling went down) wasn't a success and I had to have the bones re-set; something that involved re-breaking them. So that's three times in total.
And you were wondering why I hadn't been doing much typing?
This time off hasn't been a complete waste though, because I've nailed the stupid cow he's currently stringing along.
Difference is this one's a harder cookie than the last one ... doesn't want kids and rather likes her independence thank you very much. She's also a short, rotund grandmother of three. And I think she knows I know. And I think she knows that I'm pretty sure she knows I know.
So the pair of us get on quite well actually, now that she's got over the shock of realising she's said something she couldn't possibly have heard except from him, and that it was exactly the sort of thing a husband would know but would only share with a part time bed buddy.
My only gripe is the same one I had with poor sad deluded Beth (aka The Phool from Philadelphia) ... why isn't she woman enough to get him to work up the guts to actually GO.
We had a full moon recently ... yes we really did. I checked in the paper to make sure I wasn't imagining. Last time I mentioned that I could see a purrfect full moon through the window next to me I had some damn fool dickhead from Yorkshire posting gibberish ... insulting gibberish at that.
Probably don't get much else from yorshire folk. Should have said that at the time. Darren Gough thought he'd need to pack his PJs for this spring's trip to the Carib. On that subject we've won th'ashes and thrown away the one day series that followed ... poor team selection and hubris. Though Shane Warne's blaming the coach - then Warnie thought he was eating smarties when he got caught doping himself!
He's fucked off to Ireland with his mother for a funeral. There's a very accurate piece of bio for him to fasten onto if he can be bothered. So B and I have a couple of girlie days home.
It's early days. I knew from a few days after the initial injury I'd probably never recover full mobility and dexterity and that I'd probably always be able to 'feel' it. The scarring's quite livid, although they did get someone in to tidy things up so the fingers are now straight and I'm told the lumps will go down. (That's the lump's where the bone came out, since you asked.)
My mood has been more erratic than ever. I've never had down days before like the ones I've had in the weeks since Christmas. For some reason I feel better tonight than I've felt in a long while (did I mention that the Fat Bastard is away?). I've got Breakfast in America on, having stumbled across it during a bit of a tidy up. Right now it's playing Crime of the Century.
Brings back strange memories of my first boyfriend, who was the son of a former high school geography teacher, who I later found out was the sister of someone very, very famous. Typing few fingered is exhausting.
Thanks for reading to then end of this and hello to you. Have a good life. It's the best you can do.
I'm off to bed.