Guess what? I’m still in Bath. Bristol are yet to find me a bed, so there has been no operation for me today.

With all my newly-acquired free time, I will soon start studying orthopaedic surgery, and fix this damn leg myself.

I’ve now had four full days in hospital and am still awaiting news on when my leg will be repaired. Today I received some breaking news…

You know when football players break limbs and are sent for surgery, at exotic locations? I too am being transferred to another hospital to get my bones repaired. Where will it be? Miami? Rome? Dubai? Maybe I’ll go to the clinic David Beckham got his foot fixed, all those years ago. Nope. I am being moved to Bristol… bollocks.

I can see it now. The patients in my local hospital are rather middle class, so probably broke their bones when changing an energy-saving lightbulb in the utility room; or while at skiing practice, in anticipation of that spring holiday in the Alps

The patients I’ll be alongside in Bristol, no doubt suffeted broken limbs, running away from B&M security guards, having walked out of the shop with 12 tins of Prince’s Tuna, stuffed up their shellsuit.

Wish me luck. Well, it’s more appropriate than saying “break a leg”.

There was no blog yesterday, the day before that, or even the day before that! I have a very good excuse. As I type today’s post, I cast my mind back to Sunday evening, some 72 hours earlier…

Guess what? I am back in hospital again! I had been experiencing leg pain for a few days. I told myself that I would call Orthopaedic Outpatients on Monday, to request an appointment for this (at the time) somewhat minor issue. My left leg had totally different ideas. It didn’t want to wait until Monday…

As I entered the bathroom, I heard a sickening noise, impossible to describe, coming from my leg. I then lost all balance, having to hold onto a stool, in order to avoid hitting the floor. Then came the pain..

I have had more than my fair share of health issues, during my 36 years on this planet. I’ve endured operations, gruelling treatments, as well as symptoms which I pretty much have to just put up with, on a daily basis.

While I had to deal with some horrific situations, nothing would come close on the pain scale I felt on Sunday.

Things must have been bad, because at that point, I had decided I wanted to go to hospital “RIGHT NOW!”.

The parametrics arrived. Luckily, I had managed to get some clothes on and therefore protect my modesty.

I then had to get from the bedroom, to the hospital. While this is only a short journey, geographically, given the stress and events involved, I felt as if I was in my own 1980’s roadtrip movie, alongside Steve Martin and John Candy.

The journey went as follows…

• Move from my chair onto their chair. Complete with screaming.
• Get tied into their chair. This is apparently not to prevent the screaming banshee, the paramedics had just captured, from escaping. The ties were to prevent me from falling out as…
•  … the chair was carried down the stairs, with me in it. Reassuringly, I get told by paramedic, not to close my eyes for this manoeuvre, as I need to be on the lookout, to ensure my head doesn’t get bashed.
• Arrive at and get loaded onto ambulance. I feel like a flat-packed wardrobe on an Argos delivery lorry. I recall how Argos use Yodel as a courier. I also recall Yodel throwing a parcel over my garden gate. I am now terrified.
• Notice the curtains in a house opposite the ambulance are twitching. Get ready to wave at nosey neighbour and show them that they’ve been busted, while being friendly at the same time. Then remember my hands are tied – literally!
• Arrive at A&E. Never have I been more relieved – every turn and corner the ambulance took on the windy roads, felt as if my leg was being torn off.

I was delivered to A&E Majors (it would have been such a disappointment to end in Minors – it doesn’t sound nearly as serious), where I was placed in a bed and told to hold out in anticipation for the doctor. I was about to play The Waiting Game…

When I woke up, I nearly fell out of bed, due to shock. The surprise was caused by a familiar face staring into mine. It appeared to be John – one of the two best men at my wedding!

I quickly gathered my thoughts and realised, unsurprisingly, that it wasn’t John at all. The face staring into my sleepy eyes, belonged to the nurse on duty; who, coincidentally, shared many features with my best man.

One trait the nurse has, which John does not, is that he was extremely helpful (John – in the unlikely event that you’re reading this… I’m sorry!).

The very helpful nurse was disappointed to learn that I had no known bed sores. “Shame”, he exclaimed. “I was looking forward to seeing your bum”.

A doctor came to see me. I was told to provide a pain score, from 1 to 10 (10 being the worse). I always struggle with providing a suitable number. As my bone was shattered, my leg was naturally going to sting, a little.

If I was to provide a score of 9 – pretty excruciating – the example I would think of would be to cut open that bit of skin between your genitals and bum (apparently, the “perineum”), before spraying it with Lynx Africa.

A score of 10, can only be one possibility… Leg cramp. Luckily, I’ve never had this myself, but those Premier League footballers make that look unbearable. Especially when their team just happens to be winning 2-1 and want the game to end as quickly as possible.

To calm my pain, I was given morphine – straight into the veins. I was promised, sorry, “warned”, that this might make me feel a little odd. It helped ease the pain, but it was nothing like they made it out to be in Transpotting. You certainly wouldn’t catch me crawling into a disgusting Scottish public toilet for the stuff!

Having become more settled in bed and with the pain easing, thanks to the morphine, I started to notice how long that I was waiting to go anywhere. I did get to watch a man win the award for Rudest Person 2019 (despite it only being January). Kudos to the idiot in the bed opposite mine, who was acting seriously drunk and nasty to staff. He moaned how he had work in the morning and if A&E were not going to let him leave right away, the staff would have to pay his wages. That’s unbelievable… this man actually has a job?

I eventually arrived at the ward, where I was Nil By Mouth. I had not eaten an evening meal at that point. Lucky for me, that I had eaten that huge Sunday roast earlier… that huge Sunday roast, consisting of a cheese and onion crisp sandwich.

I remained “NBM” on Monday, due to the continued possibility of an operation being carried out that day. Contray to speculation, this was not a means of torture, by the hospital trying to get me to reveal national secrets, like a Guantanamo Bay prisoner.

The fact I was not allowed to eat, kept being rubbed in my face – staff would shout out the day’s menu, so patient’s could pick their choice of meal… “Quiche? Chicken pasta? Braised quail eggs, served with a succulent mandarin and cranberry dew?”. That was the menu, as I remember it two days later. I may not have recalled it entirety correctly.

Fast-forward to Wednesday. I’m still here. Remember the heatwave we had in the summer? I was in hospital for that, too. Want to hear something funny? The ward temperature feels just as hot today, as it did in July. This is despite it being winter and snow forecast, over the course of next week. The reason for this bizarre climate, is the ward’s heating system. This evening, they seem to have cranked the heating up to the maximum setting. Either that, or they’re trying to sweat secrets from out of me, with those Guantanamo tactics.

Earlier in the week, nurses kept having to encourage me to drink, and would quiz me on how much I had drank. Today, I’ve been drinking so much, becauae of the temperature, they’ve given up – I take far too long reading off the huge list of beverages to have passed my lips. A fellow patient appeared to get confused when asked to state everything he had drank – “Do I have to pay for these drinks?”.

As for me, we will see what Thursday brings. One thing’s for sure, I won’t be going home tomorrow. If you’re lucky, I might blog for you.

I had my second hospital appointment of my annual leave today. While last week, I only had to go round the corner, this morning required a trip all the way to the Bristol Royal Infirmary. Bloody hell…

Upon arrival, I checked myself in with a helpful receptionist, who I managed to confuse by trying to convince that my name was, in fact, Sean and not Jean, as was printed on the appointment letter.

I was shown, along with Jean, to a very busy waiting room. A large whiteboard, with the names of various clinical staff, hung from the wall.

Coloured dots were stuck to the board, presumably to indicate any delays. Green for “Everything is okay”; yellow meaning “You’re going to be waiting a while. Best pick up a That’s Life magazine from the hospital shop”; with red representing “F**k! We’re on fire! An escaped lion is on the loose! Clinic is cancelled”.

I was reassured to see that, despite the vast amount of fellow outpatients occupying the waiting room, all the dots on the whiteboard were green. My confidence that I would be seen and home in time for lunch was shattered, when I realised that yesterday’s date was still written on the board. Surely all these poor patients hadn’t been waiting overnight?

50 minutes later, I was the only patient left. I was just about to switch all the green dots for red, when I was finally summoned into the doctor’s office.

All was going well, until I was asked to list all the medication I have been prescribed. I take so many pills, on a daily basis, that if you were to pick me up and shake me, I would rattle.

Therefore, given the fact I pop rather a lot of pills, I had a tough job in remembering everything I took. Claire was a great help, as we both kept shouting out the names of various drugs, as if we were on a strange edition of The Generation Game.

I escaped the consulting room and the clinic, but not before providing a blood sample. This time, instead of using a needle, my blood was taken by cutting the rear of my earlobe with a scaple. It’s amazing how much you bleed from that area, and gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “wet behind the ears”.

On the way back to the car park, I couldn’t help but enjoy some naughtyness in the hospital elevator. The child (as well as Leeds and Bath City fan) in me, had great fun, as the video below will testify…

Claire and I are currently on annual leave for two weeks. Yes, I know I’ve only been back at work for little over a month, following a lengthy sickness absence, but I can now enjoy my time off, as I no longer feel poorly.

My initial plans of playing Red Dead Redemption 2, constantly over a 17 day period*, were scuppered when I remembered that I had to attend a couple of hospital appointments.

* In case Claire happens to be reading this, firstly, I love you. Secondly, that was a joke. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of playing Red Dead for all 17 days of my time off – that would be mad. I would, of course, take a day off from the virtual Wild West, for your birthday.

I therefore put down my Colt Revolver – AKA, the PS4 control pad – and headed back to my place of work, ON MY ANNUAL LEAVE! Claire also works at the hospital, so was no doubt equally cheesed off with spending her first day off, in such familiar surroundings.

Prior to meeting the doctor, I had to have some x rays taken. I felt grateful to be led down on a bed during the process, as it seemed to drag on for ages. I’m not good at counting, but I’d guess that they must have taken 15 million images of my bones. With all those photos being shot, I felt like one of Prince William’s kids – except, I was being photographed willingly, by a professional, respectful radiographer; whereas Prince George has his photos taken by a sleezy photographer, hiding in the bushes and working for The Daily Mail.

I then went to give blood. Before you start congratulating me for such a selfless act and saving a life, I was giving blood so that it could be tested. A small vial of the red stuff is taken – nothing close to a pint. Not the superhero you all thought I was now, am I? If it makes you feel any better, I am never given a biscuit afterwards. I hear you get one if you donate blood (so do it right now!**).

** OK, not literally right now. I don’t want to be accused of encouraging anyone to run down to their kitchen and grab the nearest carving knife.

Upon entering the blood test clinic, I was given a card with a number on it. I was number 1. Fantastic, I thought – I know how the delicatessen at Asda works – I’m next in. I would be back home, playing Red Dead Redemption, in no time. To my annoyance, the system didn’t work like a supermarket deli.

The clinic only has 40 cards, so once Patient #40 has been seen, the department starts again with Patient #1. I was that patient. I soon discovered Patients #35, #36, #37, #38, #39 and #40 were all in front of me!

Waiting to have blood taken is like waiting in line, for a ride at Alton Towers. The only difference is what you get once you reach the end of the queue. One involves being pierced with a needle and lots of blood. The other involves being pierced by a metal pylon, losing a limb and lots of blood.

As I waited, I read the front covers of the leaflets on the wall… PARKINSON’S. MS. EPILEPSY. I told Claire that given all my other ailments in recent years, I would end up getting one of those three nasty conditions and maybe I should take the leaflets home in preparation. I didn’t take any.

I was eventually called into a room, so my blood could be taken. I had a long wait, while the two ladies, gifted with the task of taking my blood, played on a computer. Somehow I don’t think they were on Minecraft. It appeared that they were unable to find a single record of my blood appointment.

Given the fact my job primarily involves working on the hospital’s computer system, I could have waded in to help. I didn’t. The reasons… I don’t believe that I should see or have anything to do with my hospital records. Secondly, I insist on keeping my time as an employee and a patient totally seperate. Finally, the women probably knew full well what they were doing – probably more than me – so offering help could come across as rude, and you don’t want to annoy somebody who is about to stick a needle into your vein!

My blood test request could not be found anywhere. I therefore left the hospital with my original quota of blood and slightly more radioactive than two hours earlier.