Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow


In the morning/10 hours from now, I may be released from the bondage of my walking boot!


Oh DO try to contain yourself ladies…I’m married!


I haven’t seen the orthopedic surgeon in 5 weeks.

And Dr. P. I’m expecting you to come through for me here.

At that point, I had 3 mm of bone growth left to go.

1 cm gaps take months to move together and then fuse with any integrity.

It’s getting to the point where it’s 22 celcius and I’m pouring sweat out of one leg…and after a hot day in the boot….I am ashamed to say, I can smell myself.

My right leg is a withery gross little appendage.

I’m celebrating by booking a massage and maybe some acupuncture.

And you thought I was going to say something cool like, go to Vegas?

What’s happened in your life to try your patience?





Bested by a pair of underpants

Yes friends, that’s a real thing that happened.

Sometimes, when you forget that one of your legs has a giant, ‘my leg is broken’ walking boot on it, and the other leg has a brace that looks like a medieval torture device circa, Game of Thrones:






You don’t realise, to go to the bathroom, you’re gonna need a little extra time.

Like perhaps, 30-40 minutes.

Now, the human body does not always allow you that time when it’s used to you have working legs:

Body: C’mon lazy ass, get up before you soil yourself.

You: Clearly body you are not getting the gravity of the situation

Body: NO, clearly YOU don’t get it… I’m in charge and you are about to go #2 while fumbling around like a blind seal trying to get your walker.

So finally, I get on my broken flippers feet.

“RACE” or um…drag my flailing limbs across the living room floor. I am begging my internal workings to just gimme some more time! Please!

While my legs are doing everything they possibly can to propel me into motion, the washroom at the back of the house, nearer to our bedroom seems like it is now located in Papua New Guinea.


Insert your favourite string of expletives HERE.

This is what awaits me outside the bathroom door:

This is what they look like to me at this moment:


In my wife’s defense, there is a laundry hamper normally in the  vicinity and I am THE most guilty of the two of us for haphazardly leaving socks, t-shirts, pants and other sundries on the floor, annoyingly close to where they are supposed to be stored,  yet somehow are not there.

In short, I made it, and then grumbled to her about leaving things in my path between the livingroom/bedroom/bathroom.

Perhaps I was a little melodramatic in telling her that continuing to do so would amount in imminent disaster should there be a moment when the amount of time I have, is inversely proportional to the size of the object in my way.


In the end, as we have a relationship of loving sarcasm and razor-sharp wit, she jokingly went to the back, picked them up off the floor and laughed, “I can’t believe you were bested by a pair of underpants.”

Oh, we’ll meet again my nemesis. We’ll meet again.