Back On Crutches

As I commence this daily chronicle my laptop clock has just clicked onto 4.40am – A decision to pen these paragraphs at this ungodly hour a consequence of being unable to slumber. This a consequence of suffering extreme discomfort following re-straining my right lateral knee ligament, which I initially injured four weeks ago.. 

To clarify, my laptop clock doesn’t literally give an audio click when it moves on a minute, as perhaps my first sentence may imply. A relief all round as I’d venture such a device feature would be incredibly irritating, particularly if you were undertaking a task requiring high concentration levels.

It’s fair to say I’m royally cheesed off at being afflicted with this latest knee drama. I was in pain for a week last time this occurred and with being my mum’s carer I need to be mobile. Or at the very least pain-free when I stand or walk would be a boon.

As with the previous incident, this straining of the ligament was resultant from a simple knee twist from a seated position. To say I’m utterly fed up at this latest twist in the GJ Strachan soap opera would be the equivalent of saying Shylock was a bit irked when the court told him he couldn’t have his pound of Antonio’s flesh in lieu of an unpaid debt.

Actually, I assuming the money lender in The Merchant of Venice was irked when he couldn’t take vengeance on the prominent merchant. For all I know he might’ve shrugged his shoulders after his courtroom defeat; merely returning home to wallow in the fact he was still absolutely minted despite this setback.

To be honest, it’ll probably highlight the level of Shylock’s chagrin at this defeat at the conclusion of Shakespeare’s tale. I just can’t remember as I was 15 years old when I last read it; or indeed google it (Other search engines are available) as my wifi is currently on it’s backside. The fact my wifi is unavailable doing nothing to raise my flagging spirits. Not to mention meaning I’m having to write this offline. 

With putting weight on my wounded limb exacerbating pain levels from ‘Arrghh’ to ‘Arrrrrggghhhhh’, getting downstairs later will no doubt turn out to be a toil of a pleasure….. Oh the joys of life as a wounded carer.

I commence this paragraph as my laptop clock clicked onto 09.25am. See paragraph two above for further info into my use of the word clicking of my device clock. Actually, unless you’ve memory recall of a goldfish, you’ve probably no need of to revisit that duo of sentences in para deux…… Apologies for being patronising.

My neighbours Jo and Paul have kindly re-loaned me the set off crutches they entrusted me with four weeks ago, on initially straining my lateral ligament. These two sticks affording me a reduction in knee discomfort, removing a need to apply weight on my wounded limb. Allowing greater mobility despite this impairment.

Upon hearing of this re-occurring injury, this morning a friend pointed out it was my bodies way of getting me to slow down following a challenging time of late, both emotional and physically. Maybe an observation which bears some basis in fact. After all, apart from when I’m writing or drawing caricatures I rarely sit down from reveille until evening meal dishes are washed and dried.

I’m hoping the toilet in the currently being revamped bathroom will be installed by close of play today. With reduced mobility, and the awkwardness of navigating a staircase with crutches, I really don’t fancy trekking downstairs to pee overnight.

Despite my whining about my prevailing rum luck, in the grand scheme of things life could be far worse for GJ Strachan. After all, I could reside in Tipton, West Midlands of England, named Barnaby, or could possess a boil the size of Wakefield on the end of my nose.

To be clear, in reality I’ve no issues with the town of Tipton or, indeed, the name Barnaby. Tiptoners have the wonderfully quirky habit of using the word bostin as an alternative to the locution great. Consequently, titling this island’s Olympic team Bostin Britain……. Er, well, maybe.

That being said, my observations about wishing to avoid a boil the size of Wakefield on my hooter is genuine…… Actually, coming to think of it, not wanting to be called Barnaby is also true!

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