So 48 hours into crutch use, several things have become apparent.
Firstly my tea consumption has been slaughtered by around 90%. This is because I can't make my own tea and carry it to my final destination. Either I drink it by the kettle, which is not very relaxing, or I wait until some kind person utters those wonderful words, 'Fancy a cup of tea?' Luckily, I am surrounded by kindly souls at work in Binland,who made me several cups of tea yesterday morning. Of course, it helps that my office door has to be passed en route to the kitchen, so I have taken to leaving the door open and doing a passable Darth Vader impersonation every time I hear footsteps heading my way. There were many references to Peg Leg, Stumpy and Long John yesterday, but keep the tea coming, and I forgive them anything.
Coming home to an empty house yesterday afternoon, I was gasping for a cup of tea, and had to wait till the Bookkeeping Queen, Mrs B-T appeared. Coming through the front door with a schnauzer hanging off each of her trouser legs, the first thing she did was make me a cup of tea. She knows me too well I feel.
But as we know, everything has a price, and I have started to restrict the number of treks I take to the downstairs loo. It's such a bloody palaver, and our loo is quite small, so a fight normally ensues as I'm getting comfortable, with the crutches, which I like to lean up against the sink, making a bid for freedom, and usually ending up on the floor, possibly swiping me a blow across my left ear on the way down.
Of course, the tea doesn't help with this, but it's a small price to pay I suppose.
The other thing I've learned is how often I stop for snacks. (This sounds like a confession by the way). Yesterday, I literally went to work, and then came straight home again. There was no stopping for morning cappuccinos, no snacks bought from the vending machine in the canteen, and no home time Magnum (Still trying to track down the new Double Raspberry, but have successfully worked through the entire Magnum range over the last few weeks). Coupled with the fact that the husband has taken on cooking duties for the next few days, I would imagine that the weight will fall off me. Every cloud, and all that I suppose.
I can't do the ironing either, unless I can persuade the husband to set it all up for me. He's loathe to help me do anything which will slow down my healing, so I can't see him doing that. Mind you, I'd have to sit on my office chair to do it and as it doesn't have any kind of brakes, this is open to all manner of disasters. Most of which would involve me circumnavigating the ironing board at a rate of knots, clutching a crumpled shirt and the iron.
But I am doing as I am told (this is what is frequently known as a 'first' according to the husband) in the hope that by next week I'll be back to normal.
However. If the husband decided to employ someone to do the ironing, I may eke the healing out just a little longer.
Now this is what is frequently known as 'milking it'...