The Ice Maiden

The enemy of the mobility impaired is not Christmas crowds. Not speeding traffic. Not an out of control Labrador. Not even eight drunken Santas in the Two Monkeys. No, the real enemy is ice. Black ice. Thin ice. Ice on pavements. Ice on roads. Slushy ice. Snow covered ice. Beach ice. Muddy ice.

The route to Scotmid may as well be the death zone above Everest's camp 4. But there are no fluttering prayer flags on the way. No stupas to protect the frail and vulnerable. Just incredibly stupid drivers sliding their cars onto the pavement. And, (I do a double take) a couple of random cross country skiers out for an urban thrill....

There are two options. Face the ice. Or stay at home for several days. The latter is not, of course, an option. For me at least. But rest assured, there will be thousands of people across the country too afraid to go out - as the main roads are gritted and the pavements are not. This is not necessarily the council's fault. The council could not get to every street. But if each householder just did their entrance, the streets would be cleared. And Living Streets wouldn't be making a polite complaint on national radio... But I digress...

I stand at the tenement door to check out the other pedestrians. There aren't any. I step out onto the snow covered ice. My right heel slides away immediately. Amazingly, I don't fall. All that physio is paying off. Another step. And another. More sliding. I hold onto the railings. Which is fine until I have to cross the road. I stare at the other side. Over the abyss. The ice on the road is an inch thick. And sheer. I cross like a crow. Make it. Slide again and grab the big wheely bin. Almost over that time. I am terribly afraid. But it also extremely funny. I am laughing. I am victorious. Because I am managing it. Just as well as everyone else. Because by this time, there are a few others with over bent knees, huddled in their woolly hats, hanging onto anything that will prevent a fall.

I make it to Scotmid. To the hospital. Onto the bus. Into the city. To the cinema. But not to Glasgow. That's a step too far. Walking on snow is natural physiotherapy. I couldn't design that exercise if I tried. Never mind make the gizmo required. But my foot aches. The skin pinkens and swells round my scar. And after two days, I resurrect my stick. Back on the best seat in the bus. Straight to the front of Xmas queues. The crowds open in front of me like the parting of the Red Sea. I am an ice maiden with a stick. The stick is back. Long live the stick.

Colin and the Number 26 Bus

Another day. Another milestone. Its pouring with rain. Rush hour. Waiting for the No. 26. bus . Last person to squeeze on. Downstairs, the bus is full. Deep breath. Decide to climb the stairs. Deep breath. Hope the bus doesn't take off while I'm half way up. Make it safely. Another deep breath. Wonder how I'm going to get down again. Daren't attempt it if the bus is still moving.

Three seats from the front I have a perfect view of the coupe that appears from nowhere on our right and attempts to cut us up. The bus driver hauls on the brakes. Holds down the horn. Emergency stop. Downstairs there are shouts and crashes. More shouting. The bus pulls over. We are four stops from home.

I can hear the driver talking to a man, asking him what's wrong. Then he is calling an ambulance. By now, the entire bus knows that a 52 year old man called Colin has been thrown three feet down the bus, hurt his arm and cracked his head. Upstairs we remain quiet. There are absolutely no complaints. A woman suggests she needs a drink. Someone else agrees. Colin is conscious but quiet. The driver fears that he will be blamed, his knuckles rapped. But it absolutely wasn't his fault. And he is meticulous in his response.

Ten minutes later the ambulance arrives. So does another 26 bus We offload obediently leaving Colin with the ambulance man, and get onto the other bus. Four stops later, I disembark. I have safely navigated the upstairs of a bus. Colin, less fortunate on the lower deck, is on his way to hospital. And the driver of the coupe, unidentified, is presumably relaxing with a drink at home. His ignorance is his bliss. There is, absolutely, no justice.

OPD 6 (orthopedic clinic)

A Tuesday afternoon six weeks after the last operation. Yes, time for another visit to ODP 6. I wonder whether to go. For the first time since my accident I have a day off sick that is not related to the truck, I have a stinking horrible cold. But if I don't go it may be very difficult to get another appointment. I swallow some ibuprofen and stagger out.

In the old days I used to get there on time. And then wait. And wait. And wait. Now I am becoming more cunning. Today I take a bus that might (according to the timetable) get me there on time. Of course it doesn't. As expected. I am a respectable 15 minutes late. No sooner have I sat down, then I'm whisked up to the Green Waiting Room. (The colour of the waiting room is important but that's a story for another time). Another minute and its into the consultant's office.

A two minute conversation, then its off for an x-ray (the radiographer is rather unprofessionally startled by my graft) - and back to the office. He shows me the x-rays. Astonishing. Almost everything has healed. Except for a small gap in the fibula. Which doesn't matter apparently. We discuss future function (this is orthopedic speak for "Please doctor, will I be able to hill walk again?)

He doesn't commit. Notes that I will probably develop arthritis in my ankle (I daren't ask when) and that I should crack on with my physio and come back to see him in a year. A year? A year! And if I need to see him before hand, if I want anything else removed (I daren't ask what), I should just give him a call. I think that he is saying there is still a whole year in which to make more progress. A week may be a long time in politics, but it is a nano second in orthopedics....

The Allotment (and other diversionary tactics)

The task is bigger than Christmas. Bigger even than Africa. But smaller than a 32 tonne truck. And definitely smaller than a year of physio.

I mean, how hard can it be tackling a few brambles, some towering roses and several feral holly trees? When it has rained every weekend for months? And it took two weeks to realise there was actually a shed in there somewhere?

And while the vines grow ever taller, the great allotment conqueror is also ensconced in at least five other hobbies (read diversionary tactics) at the same time. These include, in no particular order of importance: weekly private Spanish lessons: Fisherrow Yacht Club Committee meetings; knitting nights; vociferous reading; twice weekly swimming; and about 5 hours a day of Radio 4. Oh, and of course there's work to do too...

No doubt a psychiatrist would have a bit to say about all this avoidance stuff. Something about replacing two wheels with something more manageable; and providing visible evidence of achievement. This is not far off the truth. And it is worth considerable more examination. Later. I'm far too busy at the moment. Whatever the psycho-babble, its all getting very confusing. And thorny. I haven't managed to knit a solution for the brambles yet - instead razing them to the ground with a flamethrower in a pique of must-seize-control-of my-life garden rages.

The Yacht Club Committee speaks English, not Spanish (much to my disappointment). And the Spanish teacher alas, is not fluent in the art of Day Skipper Theory and parallel rulers. However, it does all keep the scary stuff at bay. At least for the time being. At least until I have to face it head on with the psychologist.

Whether or not the diversionary tactics are good for my long term mental health remains to be seen. Even if not, at least I'll be considerably more learned at the end of it, and I'll also have grown a few onions and mastered the bowline and the half hitch... Which means that, taking the new ironing board into account, my life will indeed be complete. That is, of course once I've learnt the ancient art of flame eating...

Ding Dong the Stick is Dead. Long Live the Stick.

I am free. At last. Free to stagger down to the end of the bus in search of the last seat. Free to stand at bars. Free to carry an umbrella and a bag at the same time. Free to sit in a restaurant without tripping the waiter up. Free from strangers asking what's wrong with me. Free to take the stairs. Free to get through revolving doors without jamming them and me. Free Free!

The stick is gone. Long live the stick. A trusty companion for months, I am semi naked without it. A constant 'something's missing anxiety'. Phantom limb syndrome. Almost limpless, I am now almost normal. Which, irony or ironies, does have its drawbacks.

For while I can walk without a stick, for several blocks even, hills are not my forte. Nor are cobbles. And when you live in a world heritage city, this is a serious disadvantage. There is no iPhone application yet that route plans for these eventualities. Not that I have an iPhone. But I would if such an application existed.

And with the stick, goes the sympathy. And the generosity. Strangers pushing past me now don't know that if I stumble, I'll probably fall. Bus drivers take off before I have got to my seat. And car drivers rev in frustration as I troop slowly over crossings. And the chats I used to have with other people with sticks. (There's a whole stick community out there which you just don't see if you don't have a stick yourself.)

And I am slow. Terribly slow. With funny little short steps to avoid putting too much pressure on my knee. But this will improve. In four weeks I will be back on my bike. My knee will be strong enough to start impact work (that's physio-talk for running). And my two trusty sticks will be returned to St Johns - ready for their next thankful companion.

Buy Nothing Day

Today is Buy Nothing Day. Unfortunately I only heard about this after I bought (for £3.50) thorn proof gloves for another onslaught on the allotment. Is this allowed? Or should I have made do with a pair of old socks lined with cardboard toilet roll innards?

It followed a (all expenses paid) night out with an international delegation in a country hotel out of town. Where fine wine flowed with a view to increasing sustainable profits in the countries involved. And the Annual Chambers of Commerce Dinner in Glasgow earlier in the week. Where the 20 year old keynote speaker made millions from his gran's jam recipe - and where I had to wait 45 minutes for a taxi to for a one mile journey that I could easily have made on foot had I not been using a stick.

At both of these events I wore my trainers. Which made the formal dress code somewhat difficult. Not, I confess, as a protest to the gods of economic growth. I don't possess that sort of courage. (Nor of course would it be professional. I was at both events representing my employer. And I'm a stickler for doing the right thing. ) But because, one year after the truck thing, I still have to wear club footer orthotics. Which will only fit in my trainers.

One year in the same pair of shoes. I am a poster child for anti consumerism.. With a penchant for Ebay.... How could this have happened to a woman who couldn't get a past a shoe shop without frosting the window with misty eyed anticipation....

The first year anniversary of being covered by Disability Discrimination legislation passed relatively quietly. No one at work noticed. Until I told them, that is. One or two people sent texts. Considerate and thoughtful. I invited some pals to dinner. We drank fizz and celebrated. Sitting at a dinner table I am perfectly normal. Even funny at times. I can still cook. I can still entertain. As long, of course, that it doesn't involve walking more than a couple of blocks for a crucial missing ingredient.

One friend bought me a new ironing board. Ironing on the floor with a knackered leg is deeply uncomfortable. To be avoided at all costs. And not having access to a car or a pair of decent legs, prevented independent purchase. I am delighted with my acquisition. It has smiling pink dots. Hangs on the back of the laundry door with a certain chutzpas. These days its the simple pleasures that count. In the past it would have been a new tent. State of the art cycle panniers. A sleeping bag that would fold into one's palm. And now I am charmed by an ironing board. Jesus!

One year on I feel I should write down all the zen like things I have learnt. Profound lessons of the heart. How I have reformed because I'm lucky to be alive. But alas dear friends, life is not like that. I have not raised a million for charity. Nor put myself through some dreadful endurance test in some far flung corner of the world. I do not command audiences on how to be good. Or do motivational speeches in the corporate world. I've simply read a few good books, done a spot of gardening and continued relentlessly with my physio. And, in the last few days, reveled in the unexpected pleasure of a new ironing board... My life is almost complete.

Support Tights (and post op blues)

Six days after my operation. My foot hurts. I can't get to the Co-op because of the pain. But worse than this, I want to lie down all the time. Its a sort of verging-on-fainting crossed with low-blood-sugar/low-blood-pressure sort of horror. I scour the Internet. Seems this is a fairly normal post anesthetic experience. I don't remember it from last time. I lie on the couch. Fuming.

However, no time for self pity. Monday 9th November. Must be St Johns Plastic Surgery Clinic (a 45 minute drive). My aunt deposits me at the front door and hunts down a car park (with difficulty). In the outpatients clinic we are informed of a 45 minute delay - which becomes an hour. This gives us time to sample the rather good fruit scones from the little canteen. And herbal tea.

Finally, its my turn. The nurse has read my notes and comments on the near anniversary of my accident. I almost weep with gratitude. Its a small thing. But so important. She whips off my dressing. I am less grateful for this. The consultant thinks that he can reduce the graft to near 'normal'. Straight forward liposuction - repeated if necessary. Day Surgery and a general anesthetic. 1:100 risk of infection. 18 week waiting list which will reduce at new year.

Strangely - this is not music to my ears. Have extra funds been provided to reduce waiting times? Or it will it be done through efficiency gains and time and motion studies? I'm no expert but, given the choice (which I wont be of course) I'd rather wait longer and have more holistic care than being rammed through the system like some sort of inverse slaughterhouse. I decide to give them the benefit of the doubt. Reducing waiting times should be a good thing. I will embrace it with open arms.

And speaking of embracing, there's the small problem of support tights. Apparently I will have to wear the aforementioned horrors for 8 weeks after the operation. To keep the swelling down and ensure a good result. And to get used to this, I have to start practicing soon. Twenty minutes a day. Christ! I haven't decided on the colour yet, but I'm thinking blood red as a starter for ten. I could even jazz them up with some graffiti. Best suggestion wins the left support stocking - which of course - I will have absolutely no need for.

Tension Wires

On Wednesday morning my neighbour dropped me at the Day Surgery Unit at 7.15. The waiting room was surprisingly busy, surprisingly cold and bereft of mental simulation. The receptionist (also a nurse) had lost the list for Theatre 18. Being on Theatre 21 list meant by interest was purely theoretical. Why wasn't the list on a computer file somewhere? Why was she phoning other departments to ask them to fax it to her? Whatever happened to a health care service fit for the 21st century? Or is it simply that so many people need access to the list, that a computer file would be less manageable?

Around an hour later I meet my nurse and we do the usual checking and testing. Next - the anaesthetist who is under the impression I am having something done to my elbow. Having corrected her we discuss anaesthetic options. She decides on a general. Apparently I am fit and healthy. Then the minion of my consultant draws an arrow on my leg with a black felt pen. Minion, I guess, probably isn't fair - but I can't quite remember who he was. At this point I am second on the list. Then suddenly I am first. Whipped into a changing room. Gown, hat, slippers and some weird space blanket thing which is to be my dressing gown on the way to theatre. Onto the trolley and down the corridor at a brisk pace.

In the anaesthetic room (which is horribly small) the desultory conversation turns nasty over the Edinburgh Trams. As a protagonist for sustainable transport, clearly I am a supporter. The anaesthetist and one of her sidekicks clearly aren't. I am on my back and vulnerable. They wield the power. And the drugs. I panic. Not over the trams - which are outwith the control of a patient in the ERI about to have surgery, but at the mask - which appears too fast. I push it off and mumble something along the lines of 'no yet'. This has little effect. I am given a hand to hold. The anti-trams people win, and the next thing I know I'm in Recovery.

I move from Recovery to a ward without windows. There are more nurses in one place than the total I have seen in the last year. Well, I think they are nurses. Its very hard to tell. From cleaners to surgeons the uniform is the same. Which may be useful for cost savings. But it ain't great for patient confidence. They do have badges. But these cant be read from a distance.

At some point I get tea and a biscuit. Later a sandwich and a yogurt. Even cheese and biscuits. The food is fresh and good and the tea is horrible. Meant to bring my own. My blood pressure drops like a stone. I'm not allowed up. This, it turns out, is because I have had a sciatic nerve block. Which, for the uninformed - is in essence a dead leg. I don't remember agreeing to this. Which later becomes a problem. Because although I am ready for discharge. Have my GP letter, my drugs and wound dressing instructions, I am not allowed home until the block effect disappears. Which I am told in the afternoon, could take 24 hours.

I weep. I rant. I try persuasion. I do not want to stay the night. I was not prepared for this No one mentioned it. I have no stuff. No money. And there are no windows in this place. I have not had a wash. Eventually I am told I can only leave if I sign a self discharge form. Clearly I am not going to do this. I don't want it on my file. I give in. Ask to be moved to the other side of the 'ward'. Complain of the stifling heat. Am given a fan. And surprisingly, sleep for most of the night. In retrospect this tantrum was probably caused by stress. And lack of control. And the weird prison like environment - despite the general friendliness of the nurses. I dont want to be a prima donna... But still....

Around 3am I realise my block has vanished. I now understand the link between the block and pain. And that the block was probably a good thing. I sleep a bit more until we are woken at 6 so that the night shift can prepare the ward, patients and breakfasts before the day shift comes on. This seems a bit early to me - but I guess its the routine that works for the staff and the numbers of patients they need to process each day.

I take a handful of painkillers. Panadol. Dihydrocodeine, Ibuprofen. And hope for the best. Breakfast is stunning. There is juice, but only be chance. I am reminded I am lucky to have this - left over from yesterday. Juice is not normally available for breakfast. I eat bran flakes in misery and wash my face at the sink with no mirror. I hop on my crutches without permission and head for the bathroom. I do my teeth and ignore the shower. The instructions for keeping my wound dry meant that showering is far too much hassle. I discover several more patients down the corridor that have been as quiet as mice all night.

Around 10.30am I am rescued by an anesthetist friend and delivered home. I am intact, minus the tension wires that were removed, with a small neat scar with dissolving stitches. I have survived operation number 5.

Where are the wild things?

Monday night. Spent watching The Fabulous Mr Fox. With a friend. Overeating Minstrels. (Me - not her). And seeing the Jonz trailer for the first time. Noticed I keep getting my words mixed up. Indigestion all day Sunday. Stress probably. The forthcoming operation? Or the ten hour days at work? The stupidly arrogant nurses at the clinic last week? Or knackering my knee and having to reduce my physio for a couple of weeks.... Or simply a Scottish winter closing in....

But its not all doom and gloom. Swapped the guerrilla allotment for Lynn's mother's garden rather closer to home. A ten minute walk. With a shed. And a briar jungle. Sharing it with an old school friend. Clearing the brambles and tripping over stumps was a (failed) test for my foot. I haven't mastered rough ground yet. But the garden is cool. As are the 'new' neighbours. One with a handy machete. And another with a pretty cat and a penchant for wildflowers. And a sunny market garden wall for everyone. I hope Lynn's mother doesn't move. At least not for a couple of years.

I still carry my stick around. But I forgot to take it to the clinic last week. Which must be a good sign. Its more of a comfort blanket these days. But after the gardening, I needed it for sure. And after operation Number 5, its companion will be dragged out of the wardrobe and put back into service. 352 days in.

I'm planning some sort of survival anniversary on the 19th. Anyone for Where the Wild Things Are?

Riding Solo

I was out in the traffic two times with friends before I attempted it on my own. Sunday pedaling with fewer buses and trucks. On the flat in good weather. My friend behind and slightly out to the right. It was relatively easy. My hands shook a bit the first time a lorry went past. And my foot hurt when I took off at junctions. Not helped by having clip in pedals which I couldn't clip into. Ironically the main hazards were dogs and small people on bikes (COME HERE MORGAN - BAD DOG BAD DOG, WATCH THE LADY ON THE BIKE...). And of course the fear of a puncture - I can cycle an awful lot further than I can walk.... But in general, I enjoyed it. Out in the fresh air. Free at last.

So today, with no friend available, I went on my own. Down the Promenade (illegally) and then onto the main road to Musselburgh. In the cycle lane (where numerous cars were frustratingly parked) and through a major junction. And although the traffic was relatively quiet, this was much harder than cycling with a friend. I was afraid. Heart pounding. Hands trembling on the bars. Not helped by the idiot who opened a car door as I came past - missing my by a whisker. I stopped, shouted and he apologised. He didn't know my circumstances of course. But its no excuse - particularly as the car in question was parked facing me. Are all of us on two wheels actually invisible?

Home safe I'd managed around 7 miles. In theory this means that I can manage the distance to my work. But the work route is end to end lorry. With horrible junctions. And a badly surfaced road. Which is not ideal for a 7 kilo road bike with a bag of nerves on top. And given that there's another operation coming up which will mean no more cycling for a while, it will be quite some time before I'm a safe and confident cycle commuter....

Operation No. 5 (preparation)

Well, it seems I was getting a bit ahead of myself. Advice from my Physio is to hang onto the stick for a bit longer. Not to overdo it. Go easy on the crossramp in the gym. Oh and by the way - "take the crutches to Operation Number 5 because you'll need them afterwards for a while..."

If I had thought about it long enough I might have come to this conclusion myself. When the tension wires are removed, they will leave tiny holes in the bone. And those holes will have to heal. And the healing will take around ten weeks. No physio for ten days after the operation. Which means a set back on the muscle strengthening. Which may mean that my knee starts playing up again. Which means problems on the bike (just when I had finally worked up the courage to cycle on the road - in the traffic). I even have to postpone my plastic surgery clinic - impractically scheduled five days after the operation (at a hospital 30 miles away). Etc Etc Etc My consultant never mentioned any of this. Said it was a simple process. Day surgery only. And I only planned to take a couple of days off work.

The pre-op clinic is next week. Quite why I have to attend this (and take yet another half day off work) is beyond me - I've been in that hospital so many times that I'm on first name terms with most of the Department. But heh - a girl has to cooperate...

In the meantime, my lawyer has served a summons on the lorry driver and his employer. I haven't had the heart, or the nerve, to read it yet. And with that documentation - a form explaining that my employment contract includes a clause which requires me to pay back my sick pay if I receive compensation. Its a funny old world.

Independent Traveller

On Friday I went to work by bus - on my own - and walked around a kilometre in total between work, bus stops and home. Sometimes I used my stick. And sometimes I did not. I think this makes me an independent traveller.... The end of taxi chits in nigh.

Almost stickless

A week on from the Scotmid adventure and I am becoming quite bold. A slow but sure circuit of the block (800m?). Stalking the corridors of power at work. All the way to the bus stop on the way to Physio. And each time the pain is a bit less, and my step a bit more confident. But I still feel woozy at times. A strange sort of sea sicknesses. Its been quite some time since I walked properly - without thinking carefully about each step.

My Physio dictates some new exercises. Trying to stop my foot collapsing inwards. Another small thing stuffed into my shoe. And I have to start jumping. Every second day. Twenty jumps. This, not surprisingly, hurts. Meanwhile on the wobble board I am starting to feel more balanced. Thirty seconds is the test. And I'm almost there. But I still attend the hospital twice a week. And that next operation is looming...

Back on my bike on the Prom my knee complains habitually but I feel ready to tackle the road. And the traffic. This may be a false confidence. Brought on by the sudden stickless freedom. And the relentless boredom of pedaling slowly up and down the same route day after day. And I'm weak as a weak thing. With a certain reluctance for emergency stops. And no way of returning in the event of an unfortunate break down. But I've set my heart on a ride to Musselburgh. Which is absolutely nothing to do with the safety of the route - and everything to do with ice cream.

To Scotmid without a stick

This is a difficult time. Everywhere I look there are people doing things that I want to do, but can't. People getting off the bus to go to the gym. Locking up their bikes outside the cinema. Running down the beach into the sea. Wandering the shops without a plan. Going hill walking. Dancing at ceilidhs. Being spontaneous. Being mobile. Its the proverbial woman who can't get pregnant - seeing pregnant women and small children everywhere. Difference is that, should the woman be desperate enough, she can always consider snatching a child (I say consider - not actually carry it out) ... Snatching someone's legs on the other hand...

And on top of all of this, every day I get asked the same questions by well meaning people,. Generous comments on the speed of my progress by friends and colleagues, and every day I have to think of some anodyne friendly response. Instead of screaming that I am absolutely and totally sick of it all. That it's now more than ten months and my foot is still sore every day. That I still go to physio twice a week while working full time with a team of eight people. That I still suffer the indignity of pre-op clinics that last three times the length of the actual operation. That my knee hurts within minutes of setting off on my bike, and doesn't settle for hours afterwards. That I am still not independently mobile. That I still haven't sorted out my insurance claim, never mind any compensation.

And with those angry and pointless (and self pitying) thoughts this afternoon, I picked up my keys and bag, stepped carefully over my stick, and went - stickless - to Scotmid. Staggering slightly, but not limping, I made it. Bought a paper and some juice and walked cautiously home. Analysed another new pain in the left side of my ankle, and experimented on how best to carry my bag. Strange how heavy a litre of juice is when you don't have your stick.

I guess this journey was a triumph. But it doesn't feel like that at all. It just illustrates how far I actually have to go before I get some semblance of my old life back. And how much work I'll have to do in the meantime. (And the thought that we never discuss - that I wont actually get it back at all).

Competent Crew

Holidays are very difficult with a stick. No cycling. No walking around. No hill climbing or mountaineering. No sitting around beaches or swanning around half a dozen art galleries. That doesn't leave much else - except for sailing. So - after a few hours searching on the Internet, a few emails and the gathering of some friends, we four arrive at Glenborrodale in Ardnamurchan with our water proofs, cameras (and prayers) to undertake the RYA Competent Crew course.

On a tiny jetty owned by Glenborrodale Castle we meet our skipper (also cook, cleaner, instructor and moral compass) for the week - Chris. Chris looks at least authentic. Early 60s, grey whiskers and a rather fabulous yacht (for the techies amongst you - a Jeanneau Sun Legend 41). We load our gear onto the Dory, and motor out to the boat.

First test for my leg - get off the Dory and onto the boat. This is achieved. And the rest, as they say, is history. Over five days it doesn't rain. We eat like kings and we learn our knots. We take the helm, reef the main sail and understand cleats and winches. We can heave to, and jibe without disaster. We can manage the jib and have a crack at the spinnaker. We sleep in very small cabins and treat fresh water like gold. We pay for a shower in Coll, and three days later in Tobermory. We practise 'man overboard' and pulling up the anchor. We enjoy our gin, and hot chocolate with rum. We oggle the sea eagle and squint into the sun for dolphins. We obey the signs 'do not feed the otter' and learn the rules of the sea. We pay due respect to ferries and whistle rudely at yachts that fail to give way. And on Friday, back on the jetty, we line up for our certificates. We are, according to the Royal Yacht Association, officially Competent.

And how was my gammy leg through all of this? Well, my knee ached pretty much the whole time. But my ankle was surprisingly silent. Was I cured? Alas no. Back on shore a week later I am still paying the price. My ankle joints stiffened up through their enforced rest and now I appear to be worse off than before. Was it worth it? Absolutely. Next spring we will tackle the Day Skipper Practical. And with that little certificate we can charter on our own....

Round Catalunya with a stick

Hace mucho calor. Cada dia. Cada noche. 32 degrees, dropping to 29 at night. This is no place for a person with a stick. And certainly no place for a person who can't wear sandals (the waiters did, after a while, get used to me sitting with my shoes off in the shadiest corner of the terrace). And finally, no place for a person with low blood pressure, who faints away if forced to stand still for more than a few minutes....

Weird having a holiday when you can't really walk around. Can't do the sights. Or the shopping. Wander the old town at night. Too hot even for physio. And the tiled floors, while beautiful, horribly unforgiving on a shattered ankle.

But. It was perfect. Eating. Sleeping. Reading. Hablo castellano. More sleeping. Three cold showers a day. Swimming in the Med. Swimming in the little pool. Eating grapes from the vine. Wandering the ramblas (well, one or two blocks). Wallowing in the generosity of my friends and their families. Marveling at the flat of my friends - 300 years old and perched on a Roman wall.

Ironically the heat prevented potential frustration. Had it been five or six degrees cooler, I would have wanted to get out there. Visiting every museum, art gallery and Roman ruin. Inspecting every Gaudi. But when its 32 degrees you wake up at 10. You eat finish breakfast around 11.30. You plan your next meal. You linger over lunch til 3. Then a siesta. A short stroll to a terrace. Or a drive into the mountains. Catching one part of an exhibition. And dinner at 10. And then more sleeping. For ten glorious days in Catalunya I almost forgot about my disability.

The journey home was the wake up call. Ever noticed how far you have to walk in airports? And then double that for the departure and the arrival. But - I achieved it. I got myself, and my stick, to Barcelona and back.

The Interview

What can I say? I only have myself to blame. They were both decent, fair and kind. They did exactly what they were supposed to do. There were no surprises. Attentive and smiling. Gave me every opportunity. And I completely and utterly blew it.

Today I had an interview for another job. I went to Physio first. Then two meetings back to back. Then jumped in a taxi. Arrived early. Walked into the room smiling. Did (I think) a good presentation. And then fell apart. Rambled. Strayed off the point. Didn't sell myself.

I will find out next week. While I'm in Spain. But its pretty obvious already. I wouldn't hire me - so why would someone else? Can I blame my accident for this? Hard to say. I'd like to, but it may just be an excuse. I have missed out on jobs before. But never performed as badly as this. Strange how an incident nine months ago can start affecting other life chances. Wonder how long it will take, if ever, to get back to normal.

In the meantime, my colleague and friend fell off his bike today on his way to work and broke both his elbows. Dog ran out in front of him apparently. Pitched straight over his handlebars. Sometimes there is simply no justice.

Paying the price

Meanwhile, back at St John's clinic last week, I was told I would need another two operations on my skin graft. In essence these are cosmetic, although the results should also allow me to wear socks without a slit down the side. I should also be able to get into a normal wetsuit. The idea is to debulk the graft using liposuction and then, some weeks later, reduce the skin to fit. There is, of course, a small risk of infection from each procedure. My consultant assures me that the team will do everything they can to avoid this. Good. However, we cannot proceed with this until I get the all clear from my orthopedic consultant at ERI. This appointment is booked for Tuesday. Perhaps optimistically, I am booked back into the plastic surgery clinic in November. All being well, I will have the surgery at the end of the year.

In the meantime, I am paying a significant price from gallivanting around the beach yesterday without a stick. Hauling the boat up and down the sand didn't seem an issue at the time. It certainly is now. Putting too much weight through my ankle has resulted in extreme pain - even 24 hours later. Probably not helped by wearing the little rubber boots without orthotics. Its a strange thing the stick. I carry it along, a bit like a pet, without realising what it actually does. A few short trips without it round the office - no problem. But constant weight over distances (particularly without my special insoles) is not yet possible. This is frustrating and disappointing. And there's no end in sight. My stick will continue to be a bit of a pet for some time to come.

Open Water

I had the idea when the new sailing club opened 20 metres from my bedroom window. If you can't stop them - join them. And if you cant do the things you used to do because of a gammy leg, then do new things. So - I decided to become a sailor. And to become a sailor at Porty Boat Club - you need your own boat. This is not as easy it as sounds. You cant just pop down to Scotmid and pick up a dinghy.

First you have to decide what kind. And your choice somewhat narrows when you realise that you have to get the boat down the beach to the water - there is no jetty, no marina. And if there is no one around to help - you have to do it yourself. And do you buy a single hander or a double hander? Because it seems that there isn't really a lightweight boat that will do both. Is it more fun to sail alone - or with a friend? And what about attaching an outboard? Or fishing? What about maintenance? Insurance? I search the Internet. Call a distant cousin who happens to be the Commodore (yes!) of a yacht club on the West Coast.

And during all the this frantic effort, a vague unease that I might not be physically up to, it my leg might not hold up, my knee too sore.. Meanwhile the search goes on. The budget rises. And then falls when HR refuses to buy out my leave. And then, how lucky am I, I meet an avid dinghy sailor who is a member of a club a couple of miles down the road. A club that has dinghies for use by members. A club that has a bar, and changing rooms, and lots of kit. A club, in other words, that is infinitely better than the one outside my bedroom window.

And this is how I ended up out on the open water in the Forth crammed onto a Pico with a friend. In a borrowed shorty wetsuit, soft black rubber boots, my skin graft open to the elements. Soaking up salty spray. Laughing and whooping. An anxious hand on the tiller. Cautious jibes and more confident tacks. Heading rapidly out to Fife, unaware that the rescue boat was never launched due to engine failure.

Back on the beach an hour later we are triumphant. De-rig and drag the boat back up the beach to the club house. Hand in my membership cheque and hose down my kit. Big smiles and aching foot. Home on the bus with my salty hair and a firm grasp of my stick. I am, officially, a sailor.

Just call me one stick

Vertigo was the last thing on my mind. But the first time I headed to the local shop with just one stick it wasn't the pain that threw me - but a strange feeling of imbalance. My head hurt, I felt sick - and I badly wanted to sit down. Unfortunately the rather handy bench in the post office has been removed. There's no rest, literally, for the wicked. These symptoms didn't occur over short distances. And they didn't last more than a few days. But they were extremely unpleasant. And very unexpected.

Since my promotion to one stick I have organised and attended The Big Lunch, been to an awards dinner in Park Lane, mastered escalators, braved the London Tube, taken a couple of four hour train rides, test ridden three fold up bikes on a (quiet) street, been trapped in a hotel shower (the tray was too high for my inflexible ankle) and taken on a new set of physio exercises. I've had a Mexican couch surfer to stay, practiced my Spanish and completed full weeks at work without collapsing at the weekends. I've harvested my radishes, planted more seeds and booked a sailing holiday round the West Coast for September.

Much of this has involved varying levels of pain or discomfort. But the exhaustion is, thank God, diminishing. The physio is harder, and keeping motivated, a struggle. My right knee continues to be problematic - preventing any real exercise beyond a dozen lengths of the pool. But walking off without my stick (left in the corner of a bar, or at the back of a meeting room) is becoming increasingly common. I like to think that this is nothing to do with short term memory loss - and everything to do with not needing the sodding thing for much longer.

Go Fast Pink

I used to have two bikes. A little blue cutie and a go fast pink one. Now I'm down to one. The Pink one. It's not a practical bike. 7.5kgs of unadulterated streamlined design. Made by a superpower with arsenals of weapons of mass destruction. It's not for pottering round town. Or learning to ride again after an accident. It cant be left locked to a railing. Or leant up against a shop window just for a minute. Its tiny rims are unforgiving. Its white flowery seat torture on an untrained bum. No mudguards or carriers. No chain guard. Not even a pretty little bell.

This pink bike has been hanging sadly on the wall for eight months. Two flat tyres, a split tube, grey dust on its carbon fibre forks. Until today that is. A long hobble to the bike shop. Handing over £18 for a new tyre. Hauling stuff out of cupboards to find tyre levers and pump. A generous pal putting it all together. And carrying it downstairs.

Riding the pink bike turns out to be the easiest part. Getting on and stopping is much more challenging. Drop handlebars and tiny peddles don't help. Cycling is technically banned on the Promenade. But an army of police officers wont get me onto the road. Not yet anyway. Especially since they are half the reason I'm in this predicament. Its quite enough contending with the prams, scooters, toddlers, dogs, and gangs of half dressed teenagers. I weave in and out of them, breathless with nerves.

Once past the ice cream crowds, we cycle sedately down to the end of the Promenade. Feels great. Normal even. Breeze in my hair (because of course I'm not wearing a helmet). I'd like to speed up but I'm terrified of falling and damaging my graft. My knee is fine. My foot hurts - but no more than usual. We stop at the end, rest a bit, gaze out to sea and return. Stopping is tricky. Pushing my weight through my right foot is uncomfortable and uncertain. Emergency stops clearly out of the question. Walking off the Prom with the bike for a few metres much more difficult than pedalling it.

So cycling, it appears, is going to be much easier than walking. Certainly in the medium term. I cant off course get a bike up and down the stairs myself. Nor can I cycle up anytihing steep. My nerves are still dodgy and there's the stop start thing. But still, I reckon I'll be pedalling to work by late Autumn. And maybe even on my go fast pink bike.

Back on the treddlie

I'd been plotting it for a while. Waiting til my knee stopped twinging. Testing my nerves on the train trip. Finding a place with no trucks. Borrowing a bike from a colleague. Hobbling down to the office car park at lunch time. A sea of cars. Bright sun. A mountain bike with slick tyres, SPD pedals and several inches too small. Wrong shoes. Rolled up right trouser leg. Skin graft exposed. Put down the sticks. Climb onto the bike. And I'm off. Shaking hands. Looking for trucks. Leg and ankle fine. No pain. No trucks. Racing heart. Do a few circuits. My colleague as a witness. Smiling. Still the racing heart. Dare not change gear for fear of falling. And cruise to gentle stop. Safe.

Back in the office my momentous moment goes largely unnoticed. Sit back down at the computer. And carry on. Friday afternoon. Too much to do. And too many days to count - but its nearly eight months. Only 100 metres pedalled. But every pedal counts. Today the car park. Next week the Prom. After that, a new bike of my own. Meanwhile my foot hurt so badly that I passed up the physio. An uncomfortable reminder that there's still rather a long way to go.

A wee trip out

Its launch day. After months of preparation. Long days and late nights. Researching and writing and editing. Meetings and negotiations. Missing my physio sessions. Checking and cross checking. Shouting last minute instructions. Printing and publishing deadlines. Press releases and speeches. My whole focus since returning to work. Now just the conference to get through. The conference, however, is not in my home town. Its an hour's train ride away. I don't give it a second thought. I'll just get a taxi to the station. Hop on the train. Then hobble a couple of hundred metres to the conference centre. Need to leave home around 7.30 am. And return around 12 hours later.

Yeah... Whatever....

I was OK in the taxi. Early at the station so bought a coffee. Couldn't really carry it so drank it too fast, too hot. Boarded the train and sat, ironically, in the bike area. Plenty of leg room. Picked up my papers and started reading. Train left the station. Then the strangest of things. My hands started shaking. My heartbeat increased. I was dreadfully tired. I couldn't focus. I was afraid. But afraid of what? Leaving the city? The train? the conference? These things were part of my normal life blood. Nothing to worry about. Wasn't even speaking at the conference. Arriving was no better. Struggled out of the train. The crowds were too close and too rude. The distance to the exit seemed ridiculously far. Hobbling out in the heat of the city. Meeting a couple of colleagues. Facing the twenty steps up to the entrance of the concert hall. Lurching into the centre. Far too many stairs and not a lift in sight,

Telling the story once more a thousand times. To colleagues not seen for months. To strangers. To people I vaguely recognised and to apparent strangers who claimed they knew me. My voice started trembling. It was far too much. I sat in the back. But I had things to do. People to meet. Speakers to thank. Food to eat and later, wine to drink.

Back on the 6pm train my legs wobbled and my concentration faded. I couldn't catch my words. I could barely stagger to the waiting taxi to take me home. The conference was a success. My colleagues tired and happy. And I, seven months after being under a truck, was totally fucked.

Men with sticks

Picture the scene. A pavement just wide enough for one person. Person A, on crutches, is heading down it in a southerly direction. Person B, on sticks, is heading up it in a northerly direction. Each has a decision to make. To make contact? Or to sidle past? The distance is narrowing. Each person looks up. Eye contact is made. Both start smiling. Then wider grins. By the time they meet, these two strangers, with nothing in common but a pair of NHS sticks, are laughing out loud. They stop to chat. Sharing their grim tales. He's from the medical profession. South African. Ex rugby player. Hip problems. Her story is already well known.

The next day they meet on the bus. The following day its the beach. She tests his anti apartheid credentials. Remember the Springboks boycott in New Zealand? Tore the country apart. On the fourth day she accuses him of stalking her. And offers him a croissant. The spare one that she bought, rather greedily, to eat in the sun on the Promenade.

If this was Cosmo, this chance meeting of sticks would become a love story. But this is no glossy mag. And of course there is no love story. There is, however, a strange but burgeoning friendship between two people who, on paper at least, should never have met. And certainty never have spoken. Funny old things these sticks. It may be worth hanging on to them for just a bit longer.

Only Five Degrees

Apparently I now only need another five degrees of planter/dorsi movement and I'll be able to walk properly... Only five degrees? May as well be a hundred. My Physio thinks it is possible. My ankle is 'springy' rather than 'clunky'. For 'springy' read potential to improve. So now I have yet more exercises. Walking sideways like a crab and trying not to fall over. Walking with one foot immediately in front of the other and trying not to fall over. Learning the Taoist Walk (Tai Chi): an exercise in extreme concentration, patience and balance. And still all the old exercises too.

Work continues on my knee. Its still twinging and so still a constraint to progress. Current assessment is that I should be able to sort the knee issues within six weeks. If I keep at the physio and the gym. It hurts in the pool after 15 lengths of breaststroke. This is immensely frustrating. But with backstroke the pain kicks in immediately. Time for swimming lessons. Except of course there is no time. So much to do. So little time. And so much energy required. There's a self help manual to be written in this somewhere. I could make my fortune. Star on Oprah Winfrey. Write a column for the Guardian. But no time, of course, to sit down and script the sodding thing.

Big Girl's Blouse

The pain is back. And a weird exhaustion. Kind of physical, kind of mental. Like the day before you go down with a cold. Something's not quite right but it's not clear what. Feel the need to go out, though, for the sake of normality. Movies. Gigs. Dinners. Beer. The Department of Knitting. Doing it all and trying not to say no. Forking out for taxis at immense expense. But knowing that going out and being normal is now more tiring than it was a few weeks ago. Because I'm back at work. And the trouble with being back at work is that it takes all weekend to recover. This can't be right. Doesn't seem fair. But can't abuse the tax payer's generosity.

But the exhaustion is not just work. It's also a result of seven months of trying to recover. Every day some physio or exercise regime. Every day the same conversations with different people. Every week some clinic or other. And there's no let up. Not a single day. And this will go on and on and on. How anyone can keep this sort of momentum up I have no idea. I guess people just do. I guess I will too.

And then on top of all of this is the dawning realisation that actually, its always going to be hard. There will always be constraints. All the chat about a new life is actually correct.

There is no pain free way of dealing with these thoughts. And its not just the big things. Try finding a pair of shoes that fit when your right foot is swollen, the graft gets in the way and you have to wear hot and sweaty insoles that only seem to fit your horrid trainers. No more cutesy shoes for me, then. How to plan a holiday when you're scuppered from doing all the things you used to do. Even a long train journey seems an immense burden.

Emerging from all this are unconscious coping mechanisms. The new activities are fairly obvious. What is more surprising is the number of rather bright shirts appearing in my wardrobe. Women who don't like their figures often focus more on shoes and bags, or exquisite lingerie. But when shoes are out of the question, bags are a pain with crutches, and no fancy underwear can hide the scars, the only thing left is a pretty shirt. Compete with me on eBay at your peril. I take no prisoners in the pursuit of the perfect big girl's blouse.

Do not feed the animals

I don't know how people successfully manage to phase back to work over several weeks. Today I worked nine hours, with no lunch break and only two minutes of physio. I just could not get all the work done. Meeting after meeting. Sitting down on the floor beside my desk tweaking a rubber round my foot while drawing breath. No time for a swim. Too tired for the gym after work. I am supposed to do no more than seven and a half hours. And its only Monday.

On the good side, much of my pain has subsided. I don't go to the canteen, and rarely move from my desk. My colleagues deliver my lunch. And cakes, sweets and biscuits.

I seem to have more flexibility in my foot, but worryingly, have developed a slight rash on my skin graft. I imagine this might be some sort of contact dermatitis. Either that, or my right leg has finally woken up to the fact that there's a bit of left thigh on it and has started the process of rejection. God forbid....

I have started yoga again, managing four of the five Tibetan Rites. (The last one is clearly impossible - used to be my favourite too..) I'm astonished by my loss of flexibility and stamina but rather pleased that I can spin round, albeit very slowly and unsteadily. My balance has been badly affected, partly because I don't have enough muscle strength in my calves to hold myself up. So my latest exercise is to stand on my right leg, and balance for 30 seconds. I can manage about 5 seconds because I collapse in a heap. But I persevere.

The Tibetan Rites require the giving up of sugar. I'm not doing well. A scone, a muffin and a large piece of cake were inhaled at work instead of lunch. And two cups of very strong coffee. This is not good for my anxiety levels, nor, presumably, my general health. For the first time in years I'm putting on weight. I just can't do enough exercise to burn off calories. But how to resist the cakes? I could take up smoking, but going all the way down the stairs for a fag is more hassle than its worth. I could try willpower, but all of that is being spent on the physio. I'm not sodding superwoman. I could stop buying them, but that doesn't remove the freebies in the office.

Perhaps a DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS should be pinned to my desk. Yes, that's it. Along with DO NOT TEASE tacked to my chair. And SEND HOME BEFORE BEHAVIOURAL PROBLEMS ARISE. That should do it. In nice big red letters. In Times New Roman. Security can pop up and down every so often to ensure compliance. And pink sheet me if I step out of line.

The Professor

The compensation claim is a long slow process. I have little to do with it but turn up for the odd appointment. It is one of these that brings me into contact with The Professor. This gentleman, from an earlier era, is to write my medical report that will go to the truck driver's insurance company. It is not appropriate for my own consultant to write the report - for obvious reasons. Thus neutral and expert advice is sought. My union is paying for this. The fee is well over £100.

First problem. How to get there. The private clinic is on a useful bus route. The bus drops me close to the entrance but on the wrong side of the road. There is no safe way to cross. The road is four lanes wide. It is too far to hobble with my crutches all the way to the lights. I spend several minutes waiting for a lull, the go for it. Safely on the other side I meet problem number two.

The clinic is at the top of a very steep hill. There is no courtesy vehicle. There is also only partial pavement. I am forced onto the road more than once. This is a place for cars and of course, their drivers. In sweltering heat I hobble up the hill. It takes around 15 minutes. Ridiculous. I mention the idea of a courtesy vehicle to the receptionist. And the danger of the road crossing. I meet another victim who also complains. I guess nothing will change. Us carless folk are strange creatures in this place.

I have around 25 minutes with The Professor. During this time he shows me no empathy, no sympathy. He is curt to the point of rudeness. He disagrees with my descriptions of my experiences. And in a couple of bullet points he wipes out my future. I am deeply shocked. No one had said any of this stuff to me before.

I will never walk properly on rough ground. So that's the end of hill walking then. Even the beach is going to prove difficult. I will never cycle up mountains again. If I dare to, I will suffer. I have had a 'devastating injury'. I should not have positive expectations. My previous life is over. He is less clear on arthritis. Its a possibility. And if it occurs it will hurt. My suggestions of other sports, such as sailing. also prove pointless. Skiing may be possible, he says. but he doubts I'll get ski boots to fit. He has no advice on footwear. He advises me to end my medication. Side effects he says. And with that, a few gentle twists of my ankle, and a couple of questions about pain and interests, I am ushered out.

As I wait for my taxi to work I am in tears. I've been living in a dream world. My working assumption is that as long as I do my physio, I'll get back to some level of normality. What have I been thinking? Such head in the sand behaviour! But there is no other way of doing the physio. It has to have a positive end. Otherwise, why get out of bed in the morning? Why go through the pain and hassle?

But I am also furious. Furious with The Professor. I paid, though my union membership, for that very expensive consultation. Messages such as these are always difficult to pass on. But there are ways and means of delivering them. Clearly The Professor's skills are technical rather than social. He may be a wizard with a hacksaw but a counsellor he is not.

At work, I weep a bit more. The next day too. But four days on I am back as an ostrich. I spend 2 hours at physio and a further 2 at the gym and pool. If I can get out from under a 32 tonne truck, The Professor should be no problem at all.

Grounded

It was only a matter of time. Its a while since I've had a 'regression' and now here it is. Seems that a couple of days of work were simply too much for my ankle and foot to cope with. The distances in the office are considerably more than my living room - and its a fair old hike to the printer. My ankle complained almost immediately, as did my knee. My Physio prodded and poked and decided we should ease back on the exercises, boycott the gym and stop walking for non essential trips.

This is, of course, infuriating. As is the constant pain. The weather is fabulous. I need to get to my allotment. I have a huge work load to address. There's a chance to share a dinghy in our new 'neighbourly' sailing club. I want to try on wetsuits. I had finally found my independence. - getting the bus into town on my own. I had just started some cardio exercise. And now I'm essentially stuck at home. Getting fatter with each waking hour. With a new set of very subtle quad and knee exercises. Too close a proximity to the kitchen. And some rather baffled cats.

So, in a desperate act of normality, I book a flight to Barcelona for late August to visit my fabulous friends in Tarragona. I feel vaguely guilty about this flight. This was going to be my year of not flying. But I fear 18 hours on the train may be too much for a semi - cripple. (It remains to be seen whether the airline will charge me extra for the sticks. To prevent potential humiliation I forked out an extra £100 to avoid Ryanair...)

I listen to my Spanish lessons on the bus to Physio. I line up my Spanish books on the table. Beside my gardening books. I may even open them sometimes. I accept a few more couch surfers, and I wonder how long this whole recuperation lark is going to take. I read blogs of folk cycling the world and I wish it was me. I have a check of my stat counter and note that Boris has been doing searches on himself again. Surprisingly, this makes my day. There are no secrets on the Internet. Especially from people who have nowt to do all day but teach themselves Internet forensics. You have been warned....

A short walk in the Hindu Kush

The day my tiny sunflowers burst through the soil is my second half day in the office. I am supposed to be phasing in over six weeks. But I've no idea how to manage this. By chance, and through no one's fault, there are three 'lines of command' out of the office on my return. Two above me and one immediately below. And with my own absence this means there is a lot of catching up to do. Fast.

My quandary is personal. No one is insisting that I get everything done. But how to hobble out of the office without doing so? Should I stay longer and get involved? Or leave people to it? If I wasn't there they would be doing it on their own anyway. My diary is filling up faster than I can block out days off. But after four hours in the office I hit the wall. I can't even summon the energy for a swim. It took me 12 hours to recover from the second day. This is enormously frustrating - and surprising.

I have a colleague who works with 'dispassionate' enthusiasm. He does a brilliant job. But he doesn't take his work home in his head. He leaves on time unless there is a genuine crisis. This is something I must also master. But no one can tell me how to do this. In my recuperation period I have an enormous opportunity to learn - there'll never be a never chance. But already my friends are telling me they see and hear the 'old me' on the work front, a tendency to long hours and (over?) passionate enthusiasm.

And my half pay has kicked in. Every day out of the office is a loss of money. And because HR did not know exactly when I was coming back, this month's pay is already 'docked' more than it should have been had my hours been known. So the incentive is to work more hours than advised by OH to avoid the loss of salary. Even although I can afford the temporary loss and its too late this month anyway. God, the mind plays fearful tricks over money.

Meanwhile back at physio, there are yet more issues. This time 'mechanical'. So now I have a taped foot and a taped knee. And an end objective. Apparently it is normal for the physiotherapy to continue until the patient is back at their pre injury sporting standard. For me this is the ability to cycle up extremely high mountains. Eight hours on a bike at 4000m elevation. I guess I'll be going to physio a bit longer than I expected. Time for a short walk in the Hindu Kush - complements of the NHS.

The woman who knitted the world

Wednesday 20th May. Six months to the day. And back to work. But first, up at 7.15 because its my penultimate patient transport experience. And knowing my luck the ambulance might just come at 8. In the event, it doesn't. Sod's Law. Gives me time to tidy up before the cleaner comes. A decent breakfast and then its off to physio.

Not a physio session goes by without a new problem emerging. This time its the identification (finally!) of soft tissue damage in my right thigh. Despite having it drained twice in hospital, and it hurting like hell ever since, no medical professional seemed interested in having a look at it. Until today. The damage seems to be causing some of my knee problems. And the mad 'split' across the front? Could have, it appears, been caused by a tourniquet during one of my early operations. To stem bleeding from my lower leg. So more exercises for it, and hefty massage treatment - by the Physio and myself. This as usual, is, as the Physio says, 'uncomfortable'.

Back home I have half an hour to prepare for work. I realise too late that my school bag was wrecked in the aftermath of my accident. Problem number 1. How to carry laptop, use my crutches, and remain stylish at all times? Problem not solved. Use ugly old backpack in the meantime until eBay produces something better.

In the taxi I am nervous. But there was no need to be. Within 20 minutes of arrival it felt like I'd simply been away on holiday. Everything was the same. Kind colleagues who had worked hard in my absence to keep things going. This should have felt good - but....

I deleted over 2000 emails and the world continued to turn. I had two rapid meetings and solved a couple of problems. I remembered acronyms. I had a conversation with a colleague about a policy issue - and realised with a sinking heart that I had had an identical conversation some eight months before.

Around 5.15 I am suddenly exhausted. There's already a pile of papers on my desk for take home reading. The taxi driver on the return journey was a senior bank manager. He quit some six years ago when he realised what was going wrong with toxic loans. He didn't agree on principle. He has a nice life now. Short hours, interesting chats and enough money for essentials and golf. His partner supported his move. I like that.

Where I wonder is the Department of Knitting? I think I want a transfer. Its not that I don't like my job. Its a great job with good people. And excellent conditions. Especially in my predicament. Its just that, instead of being a mere policy wonk who had a nasty incident with a truck, I could be the woman who knitted the world.

I may only be knitting tank tops now, but I'm sure I have the ability, or at least the dedication, with my fellow knitters of course, to knit a solution to climate change, crochet an end to child poverty and invisible blanket stitch world peace...

Planting the seeds

It seems there's more to this gardening lark than meets the eye. And a lot more generosity. You will recall that my kind friend dug two beds for me down at the allotment. Next time I returned, another had been dug, and one planted with seed potatoes. This time by a man of a certain age that I had only met once, who knew of my plans for the beds. Am I the luckiest lass in Scotland?

So - it was off to B and Q for some rabbit proof fencing and some seeds. Lesson Number 1. Rabbit Proof Fencing is not cheap - £25 for 20 metres. And that's before any consideration of the posts. Then the seeds. Shocking! This is not a hobby for poor people. - at least in terms of start up costs. Cheaper at the shops. But a hot tip in my gardening book (Growing Stuff - An Alternative Guide to Gardening) - buy kids' seeds.

Sure enough, a packet of children's sunflower seeds is a third of the price of those for grownups. Alas, it seems there is not a children's market for nasturtiums. I cough up £2. Then some radishes, two bags of organic peat free compost (a fortune), and its back to the allotment with my booty. My new friend of a certain age takes the wire, hides it in his shed and promises to put in my posts. I am so astonished that I offer to bake him a cake (this is no humble offer - its 20 years since I last did any baking; and then I used buckwheat instead of sugar. You can imagine the result).

Back home there's a letter from the Guardian. A couple of weeks previously I had applied for its offer of free seeds and herb plants - paying the postage of around £3.50. It seems, though, that the offer was somewhat oversubscribed. I will receive my seeds in June (postal strike dependent). I am outraged. June is far too late. The Guardian, it appears, is rather less efficient than my pals down at the allotment.

Never mind. There is still work to be done. The French couch surfer drags the hefty bags of compost all the way up the stairs. Betty (the cat) and I then set to work. By the time we are finished there is compost all over the rugs, the seeds are safe in their pots with their little clear plastic jackets on and we (Betty, the Frenchman and myself) are all very virtuous. Its a pity , of course, that I forgot to label the pots. But I'm sure I will be able to tell the difference between a kids' sunflower and an adults' nasturtium. Eventually.

A toothbrush, a bag of rice and an old sock

Just as everything seems to be on the road to a fullish recovery, along comes a sensational problem. Literally. The area round my ankle and calf is hypersensitive - mistaking the touch of a towel for a chainsaw. This is, naturally, impeding my physio. I can barely tolerate the necessary scar tissue massage. The solution?

Find an old toothbrush. Ensure its clean and dry. Brush the offending area. Three times a day. I comply. I hope no one is watching - in appearance at least, its borderline insanity. It does have the added bonus, though, of keeping my increasingly lengthy leg hairs nice and tidy...

Meanwhile, my right knee is not behaving. Since the last operation I can't seem to get it going without pain. Walking is fine. But the exercise bike is not. Nor are all those mad leg lifts on the gym ball. The trick is gentle strengthening of my quads and calf - with the help of an old sock filled with rice. I tie the sock to my ankle and do leg raises. And then tie the sock to my knee for some hip extensions. This is OK at home, but at the gym there are a few raised eyebrows. My sock, it seems, may not be up to standard.

I have now been at this physio caper for around five months. Boring it is not. But keeping it going is tough. I wonder, in my my more conspiratorial moments, whether the toothbrush and or the rice-in-a-sock is just a wizard wheeze of the Physio to keep it entertaining. I guess I'll never know.

Digging for Scotland

The first turf is cut!

But lets take a step back. In Edinburgh, the official wait for an allotment is several years. And the list is getting longer. We folk without gardens are in despair. You can only get so far with window boxes and north facing coastal strips.

Then along comes a well known man with a big idea. Find all the people who aren't using their land. Find all the people who want to use some land. Pair them up. And heh presto - less wasted land and more happy people. Thanks to the man with the big idea, and the joys of the Internet, only a week after registering, I have access to a man with a piece of land. A few days later a kind friend takes me to see it. I have to decide then and there whether or not to accept it. I have to say yes. Buy land, the expression goes, because they don't make it anymore.

But I am on crutches. The land has not been dug over. The land is not within walking distance of my flat. And it has been raining. A lot. And windy too. And if I don't start digging this land soon, someone else may be more deserving than me - and take it off my hands.

How am I going to get this land dug? First I need the tools. Then I need a lift. Then I need 'some help' with the digging. 'Some help' means of course, 'all of the digging'. I have a lot of very generous and kind friends. But this may be a step too far. I will have to ask. This is tricky. My friends have already been going out of their way for nearly six months to cook, shop, entertain, chauffeur and generally ease me back to normality. Digging for Scotland is not everyone's idea of a nice day out. Especially in grim weather.

And then, would you believe it, I have not one but two offers of help. People like me don't deserve this level of kindness. So on a blustery wet Saturday afternoon my friend and I head for the land. With his tools. In his car. He digs the turf off, and I fork the soil. I cannot do this with my feet so its shoulder to the grind.

But I am without crutches - feet in the soft wet earth. Hiding the worms from the birds. Throwing the odd stone over the hedge. Preparing the soil for a 'lazy bed' (yet another kind friend is providing the garden advice via text from afar). Hands freezing in my cycle gloves. Worrying for my friend as he digs and digs. Stopping for warm tea and chocolate. And then we are done. Surveying our handiwork. Two decent sized beds. In a sunny position. Reasonable security. Friendly neighbours. This is almost too good to be true.

As we drive off, filthy and tired but proud of a physical job well done, a large crow hops into the freshly dug earth and grabs one of the worms. Swallows it whole, as crows do. My efforts at protection were in vain. Still, there are plenty of worms to go round. I practice mindfulness on Mr Crow. He is still in sight when we disappear round the corner - feasting on the fruits of our labour.

Murder in the Library

There was a murder in the library this afternoon. Well, not an actual murder, but the story of the murder, a relative of the murderer, and the murderer's friend. I was sitting innocently on the 'comfy sofa' preparing myself for work. In essence this means concentrating for as long as possible on reading material and ignoring the cacophony of screaming babies, crawling toddlers, mothers talking to other mothers about pram jogging and Pilates, and the elderly deaf (mostly men) chatting with slightly raised voices. A young man was going though the same CD piles over and over again without looking at them - click click click click....

I don't particularly mind all of this - but on a Thursday afternoon the term 'library' is less informative than perhaps 'community drop in centre and local creche'. So I'm sitting on the sofa engrossed in the latest Granta when an elderly man is dropped off onto my sofa by his daughter. His toddler grandson is roaring up and down the Romance aisle. He has a vague smell of whisky about him, and walks with a stick. He strikes up conversation.

Within seconds I glean that he is a self confessed alcoholic (bottle and half of whisky a day he claims), he knew someone living in Spain who claimed his wife's pension for eight years after she died, he has been in and out of hospital with alcohol related problems - and please could he have my sticks because they look better than his?

A young man sits down at our table. My new found friend strikes up conversation - recognising the man as a relative of his friend. The young man has just been laid off - lost his job in the construction industry. Come in to read the paper, and perhaps to kill time. I feel sorry for him. Here am I on full pay, idling time at the library. But I don't join in. I focus on A. L. Kennedy and her rather fabulous fictional account of her teeth. The young man leaves and the old man leans in to me conspiratorially.

"That lad is related to a murderer. Got life the bloke. Been out for long time though. Loaded. Drugs, crime. Killed someone in a fight in a bar... The lad's alright though - you can't be responsible for your relatives." I am aghast but strangely titillated. Like finding a red top on the bus - you know you shouldn't read it but there just might be something gruesome so you stretch over to grab it and pray that no one sees. I get a few more details, including the location, then he changes the subject.

On the way home, staggering in the wind, I meet another old man with a stick. I recognise this one - met him in Scotmid yesterday - he was hit by a truck in the 1970s in London and has suffered ever since. Head injuries. We exchange pleasantries, compare wind and stick notes (which is better in the wind - one stick or two?) and continue on our separate ways. I don't tell him my murder story - but I probably will the next time I see him. Because so far, he's one up on the truck story - and I need something to compete.