B’s occupational therapist has finally given him the go ahead to return to work. On June 4th he’ll snap on his braces, tip his bowler hat at a rakish angle and re-enter the world of high finance. I think he is both excited and apprehensive about this. It’s been more than a year since he was last in the office so it’s bound to require some adjustment, both mental and physical. He’ll work 2 mornings for the first 2 weeks, then increase to 3 mornings. At that point he will see the therapist again for a review.
Our ‘return to normality’ doesn’t extend to me going back to full-time work. I’ve been part-time for 6 months now. Time flies when you’re having fun. I honestly have no idea how I coped for so many years, working 5 days a week. If I’d continued like that there is no way I could have achieved so much. For example, I watched 4.5 series of Breaking Bad in a month. This is one of many recent viewing accomplishments.
My foot surgery last week went well. I was permitted to listen to music on my headphones throughout the procedure. As I lay there with Bastille’s ‘Pompeii’ blasting in my ears, almost masking the sound of the saw slicing through my first metatarsal, it struck me that anaesthetic has to be one of the top inventions of all time. When the pain roused me at 5am the next morning I woke B for a chat about it (for as I have informed him, his purpose during my recuperation is to entertain as well as to serve).
‘If I had lived in Victorian times I probably would have had the foot lopped off, with nothing for pain relief except a sturdy board to bite into’, I said. ‘Yes’, replied B, ‘and then you would have contracted an infection and died. Poor Victorian you’.
So far my period of ‘imprisonment’ in the flat hasn’t been too bad. I would like to go outside, but only because I can’t. The weather is cool and rainy, and I’ve always found going outside in these conditions to be overrated. Once out there, I usually just want to come back in.
My ‘jailer’ is a far cry from Josef Fritzl and Ariel Castro. There are no chains, threats or beatings. When I can leave the flat again, I wonder if tourists will line up outside to view the scene of my ordeal – the enforced cups of tea, home made muffins and gourmet dinners. Will they try to imagine the punishing regime of Golden Girls re-runs, voracious Kindle e-book consumption and daily naps? Or will they wait for the tell-all book?