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.

Ready Steady Walk!

Its official. From now, no crutches inside. Sticks for outside only. But of course, its not that simple. While I am 'walking' unaided, its more of a flat footed stagger than a real walk. And my knee hurts like hell. The problems, it seems, stem both from the original injury, and weak leg and foot muscles. Amazingly, my Physio can assess all this by watching my stagger across the gym. So a new set of exercises for foot and knee, and a strong caution - don't over do it.

But now that I can weight bear fully, a devil somewhere is tempting me to do more and more. I can carry things now, drink tea where I want to, pick up a squirming cat, move furniture. I have reduced my painkillers so much that I often forget to take them - and thus the pain arrives suddenly and unexpectedly. Sleeping is more difficult these days rather than less - my 'locking screws' that hold my tibia nail in place hurt like hell and I can't get comfortable at night. Boredom is setting in but I still don't have enough stamina to do all the things I want to. Which leads to the 64 Million Dollar Question - when to return to work?

The work question is very tricky. Returning too early risks set backs and going off sick again - which is not only poor for moral and hopeless for business planning but also not advisable financially. But not being at work is becoming boring - and I may face accusations of malingering. Dragging things out as long as possible. "You can walk (a few steps) - why aren't you at work?" This is outrageous of course - I didn't throw myself under a truck to get 6 months full pay for the sheer joy of it. And in the end, although I receive advice from Occupational Health and my GP, I have to decide.

So today, in discussion with yet another GP in my practice (I have never seen the same one twice), we agreed on a provisional date of 20th May. I had, rather optimistically, been considering the 13th - but with my knee problem (and a daunting experience in the wind today) - that seems a tad early. The 20th is in reach - but its not tomorrow. It will mean moving on to half pay for those days I am not at work - and any sick days between now and the end of the year. But these days a drop in salary seems rather unimportant. So now all I have to do is get cracking on the physio regime, and count down the days. And then of course, deal with all the bureaucracy of a phased return to work.

Open for business

Given that I can now take a few, albeit ungainly, crutch free steps, it is time to open the couch for business (www.couchsurfing.com). I duly change my 'couch status' to available, sit back and wait for the avalanche of requests. I do not wait long.

The first few come from the under 20s. The young uns tend not to bother reading my profile, send the same request to 30 people, and are generally on the scrounge for a free bed. I ignore them. This reduces my 'response status'. Do I care?

Then a couple that are more interesting. An Italian post doc researcher based in the UK and a French train driver. Unfortunately they both want the same dates. I ping back a 'yes' to the Italian woman and a 'no' to the Frenchman - on the basis that the Italian contacted me first.

By a strange twist of fate too complex to explain, they both end up staying at the same time. Picture the scene. A Scot on crutches with a smattering of French. A smart and stylish Italian woman with no French but awesome enthusiasm. A (on first appearances) quiet and calm French man with a smattering of English and no Italian. Two bamboozled cats who understand neither French nor Italian but are very up for the chicken salad (never before encountered).

A bit like hosting two cats, two surfers are better than one when the host is immobile. They entertain each other during the day in the city, and then, unlike cats, prepare delicious meals, make the coffee, buy the croissants, and do the washing up. I am immensely cheered and motivated by all this positive activity. I manage up the stairs with 'normal' steps. I lose my second crutch constantly (this has to be a good sign), and on occasion wander off without any crutches at all.

Meal times are a whirl of English, French and Spanish (quite why the latter is used, no one quite knows - but it sounds good at least). We are served up sumptuous crepes and home made chocolate oranges. We play and argue wildly over some bizarre card game (Sets?) that will no doubt be introduced to the national curriculum given its level of difficulty and complexity. We ponder the ablution habits of French train drivers (is there a toilet in the cabin??).

The French man leaves for his free train travel up north (oh, to be a European train driver), and the Italian returns to work a day later. I pick up my knitting again, go to the gym, make my first venture out to the back garden with Betty, and actively consider cycling again on Seafield Road.

Couch surfing is not always this good (witness a previous encounter with a rather different Frenchman), but this time it was tremendous. As I previously noted, NHS (England and Wales) is running a competition for innovative ideas to save money and improve health care. Perhaps couch surfing should be included. Patient returns home early (thus saving money), and their home is then invaded by polite, enthusiastic, 'foreign' surfers who provide food, cleaning and pure unadulterated entertainment. Patient recovers more quickly, less services are required and we even get a bonus cultural exchange - which makes us all happy well rounded multi lingual people. Unfortunately the competition is only open to NHS staff - but if there is anyone out there reading this - feel free to submit it. I will not, however, be responsible for any rogue surfer who spoils it all and ends up as campaign target by the Sun.