The highlight of this week for me was a trip to the theatre.  Not as a bystander, and not even a walk-on part, but laid out with a central role in an operating theatre.

The last time I snapped a tendon I was three days in hospital with morphine injections to dull the pain.  This time, perhaps the NHS are getting bored with me, just 7 hours in a day surgery and sent home with instructions to take a Paracetamol and Ibruprofen cocktail.  Sort of surgery-while-u-wait or tendons-r-us kind of idea.

I arrived at the hospital at the prescribed time and was told there would be a bit of a wait while they found my notes and a surgeon.  Both had been held up at another site and although it was frustrating, I thought it was worth the wait as the notes would flesh out the job details and a surgeon would be better than say, a local lad on work-experience.

After a couple of hours the wait was over and a nurse came to take me to the theatre.  She pushed the bed and I was told to hop on my crutches beside her as we made our way to the  Green Room.  I think I rather cut a dash as I hopped through the ward with my backless theatre gown billowing out to reveal teasing glimpses of pertness, and certainly the nurses we passed had quite an expression on their faces.  A sight that will stay with them for quite some time, I’m sure.

And so into the the wings to be prepared for my grand entrance.  I lay down on the slab with a few last reassuring words from the nurses.  I was on the point of taking issue with the anaesthetist when he said “Just a little prick …” and the next thing I remember was coming to in the Recovery Room.

Frankly I wasn’t my sharpest when I came round and indeed for some time since but after fasting from the previous evening, the ham sandwich and tea was Heaven sent.  I did ask for a small Scotch but maybe that’s for BUPA patients only.

And that was that.  My chauffeuse arrived, I abandoned my stage gown but kept my DVT stocking as a souvenir, and hopped off into the night.