When is a bed no longer a bed?

When the item in question becomes a sofa, a chair, a table, a life’s stage and ultimately an extremely comfortable prison. . .

On my stage the drama of recovering from painful foot surgery has been unfolding, one long, often seemingly endless, day at a time. Actually I wouldn’t even say day as they have rather become messed one into the other. The hours stretch out before me as endless and often as silent as a dark tunnel meandering through some gloomy, desolate landscape. My previous life’s tunnel would be more comfortable housing the bustling Euro express for example. But for now and the next four weeks or so I am painfully and emotionally darkly aware that tomorrow will be the same as yesterday and the day after the same as the day before. . . .

Post surgical reality is that I have time on my hands, actually in all honestly what I have is time on my arse! About 23 hours a day for the last 30 days. . . I have spent these days sitting, half lying or fully laying down, but all with my feet up at waist level or higher. The throbbing in my feet from surgical removal of Morton’s Neuromas (plural, yes more than one), has been complemented by a culmination of other pains. If the surgery was a metaphorical meal then the resulting pains could be likened to a quality colourful garnish. . . . . It has been a while since I have spent so many hours dwelling on pain and suffering, my own that is, I have passed some of this endless time swearing about my condition of the moment, hour or day to my lovely daughter and son. I have sworn out loud to an empty house or facebook page any audience has been rewarded conscious or otherwise to a barrage of colourful swearing and ailments. I realised that there was the distinct possibility that I was turning into a hypochondriac with Toutettts!

For days I dragged myself around the house with my new crutch companions . . . there must have been a reason why I was told most definitely to use them at all times. What I have, at home, are stairs, stairs and more stairs. I completed myself daily on my growing ability to juggle one crutch whilst carrying its partner at the prescriptive 90 degree angle.

I quickly became adept at balancing the crutch not required for stair descending or ascending whilst moving from one location to the other. I was informed that it was necessary to spend at least an hour resting between relocations, permitted, as I am, to walk only for five minutes in any hour. My main problem here apart from the obvious, boredom factor and pain is that I am cursed with the bladder of a two year old, or at least one with the capacity of a tea spoon, I add this because I have personal knowledge of children with bladders that would happily hold the contents of most Olympic sized swimming pools.

Unfortunately, though typically, my need for the toilet increased whilst the ability to comfortably make the stair journey diminished. Dragging myself around up and down stairs has caused pain in my arm and shoulder to become so urgent that I have been forced to take painkillers, something which I am generally loath to do. (more opportunities for swearing).

My feet aren’t in constant pain now, thankfully, the throbbing and burning has been replaced by a periodical watered down version. When I was in ‘real’ pain at the beginning of this journey I didn’t really have the time to think much about anything apart from toilet, eating and resting but now 30 days later I have time, time to think about everything time to experience the emotional pain of 30 days and nights being held captive in my own house.

This is crazy because I have spent weeks here when of course I had the ability to go out I didn’t, like when I had the ability to clean I didn’t. What was I doing, how was I spending my time you may ask??? Well on facebook of course I have an incredibly demanding virtual life. . . . .

Human nature . . . aren’t we a perverse lot!!

Every day I make myself the promise of setting up and writing a blog, not for anyone other than myself rather a platform to process the inner ramblings that are my present, and in honesty, my permanent state of mind. Every day too I believe and resolve anew to write the letter to the DVLA informing of the date when my last car was scrapped and therein lays the problem that information isn’t carried around in my head. Locating said information requires, at worst, delving into piles of carrier bagged paperwork, at best making another phone call to the garage to ask them when they destroyed it.

I also resolve to phone Brighton University to discuss the e-mail that they sent regarding the educational researcher study position.

If this isn’t enough of a daily challenge I also have definitely, yes definitely without backing down or giving in to temptation and laziness to eat healthy YET again.

Right at this moment Adel is musically proclaiming that she’s bored’ she echoes completely my sentiments. . . . . actually though thinking about it I believe that Steve Martin did this emotional condition more justice in LA Story when he wrote on the window of his apartment ‘bored beyond despair’ this statement probably better describes my present condition.

Yesterday, whilst balancing in the shower, I was thinking about the amount of ‘real life that I squander each day immersed in the virtual world of facebook where cooking and farming and egg hunting are the order of my day.

I have began to realise that the mess around my house is driving me to the brink of a distraction. The only reason now that I am not tidying is because I know that at the moment cleaning really would be detrimental to my health??

Just a month ago I could:

· murder weeks in the little yard (did this at 5am on the morning of surgery)

· Trawl around in the pond to remove weed which was transported on the back of the, much desired, school frogs, which incidentally, despite the spacious Harrods style living style accommodation, have packed bags and left!

· Remove twenty years of detritus from my house, cart the evidence of past financial and school endeavours along with the often odd drinking binges (children and friends not mine, this isn’t another addiction that I need to removal help with) to the skip, hospice shop, school fete or other well appointed new abode (came over all Beatrix Potter for a moment, apologies).

· Get in my car and drive seven and a half hours (4.5hr journey time according to Google maps, but failed to realise that it was necessary to check in with the instructions whilst driving – SAT NAV not available for journey) to surprise an ex boyfriend who flirted with me relentlessly for the past six months and then at the witching hour of re-affirming our shagging vows changed his mind only to disappear once again into ‘other’ peoples’ lives. . . .

Hang on I did actually do the latter, but hey that’s a narrative for another day another time, and very probably another life.

Farewell for now audience of mine if I do indeed have one, Cafe World calling . . . . . .