After spending an hour or so this morning ensconced in Pinderfields hospital Accident & Emergency (A&E) department, Wakefield, I’m back home nursing the knee injury sustained yesterday in a freak incident. An ordinarily innocent enough twisting motion while rising from a garden chair the source of GJ Strachan’s prevailing joint agony.
Anyhow, the diagnosis is I’ve suffered a lateral ligament strain. Subsequently, I’ll spend the next few days walking with the aid of crutches and not a little discomfort. The latter hopefully easing with the efficacy borne from strong painkillers.
Yours truly’s injury putting pay to this weeks scheduled dog sitting of my lab/retriever buddy Coco. A newly acquired affliction of not being able to walk unaided meaning Cokes’ mum Sam had to drive over from Lancashire to reclaim her beautiful girl.
A decision reached after yesterday afternoon’s aborted attempts to walk Coco to Moor Knoll park and back with the aid of crutches. A task that in hindsight was never going to be logistically possible; especially when merely walking with these blooming sticks was a Godforsaken chore in itself.
Consequently, fate has conspired to ensure I’ve been robbed of some quality time with the adorable canine. A lady whose company can be guaranteed to drag me out of the starkest of low moods.
To ensure it doesn’t stiffen up, medical staff’ve advised the afflicted joint needs frequent exercise; and despite the pain of load bearing on the knee (within reason of course) the action won’t delay its recovery.
I’ve got to say, though, the soreness I’ve just experienced walking from one side of my garden to the other was pretty excruciating, Although, I guess that maybe a consequence of being due the next dose of painkillers.
It’s two hours later and, topped up with Anadin Extra, I’ve just dragged the wheelie bin around to the front of casa Strachan for emptying by refuse men tomorrow. These meds mercifully making the task significantly more comfortable than my earlier 30-40 foot meander across the back garden.
The gauge used to reach this conclusion the ‘Gordon Ramsay Swear-o-meter’. A swearing measuring tool calibrated to score curse words higher if they rhyme with duck, cat and frastard. As I only expressed brisk language rhyming like floody, bell and frolics during my wheelie bin move, it was clear the soreness had abated a tad at that juncture.
Prior to my return to the keyboard to complete this prose, I treated my chiminea with rust proof black matt paint. A self-inflicted task consequential from me laxly not purchasing a cover for the appliance I permanently store outdoors.
Looking out at my metal decoration handiwork through a kitchen window, the drying paint looking back at me bore a remarkable resemblance to my late father’s visage. Looking displeased with his lot (which, I guess, is inevitable when you’ve left this vale of tears) he appeared to appear irked with me….. Potentially, deeming me a stupid frastard for leaving our fire pit to rust.
