Operation: Out Of Hospital

The day after the operation, I was taken in a wheelchair to the Physio department to “learn how to use crutches”.

I now know how to use crutches.

After being taught how to use crutches, I was asked whether I wanted to buy any crutches. I wasn’t really sure what to say to this. The conversation went something like this:
“Would you like to buy some crutches, Mr Michael?”
“Er… what?”
“Some crutches.”
“Well… either that or I can borrow some or something.”
“We don’t have any for hire for hygiene reasons.”
“OK. I assume I need crutches?” I asked.
“You don’t already own any crutches, Mr Michael?”
“Er… no… but I do need them?” I reiterated.
“Oh yes, you won’t be able to walk without crutches for about three weeks.”
“I think I’ll buy some crutches.”

I bought some crutches.

I take part in this kind of pointless, cyclical conversation frequently in Singapore. I don’t quite understand the pragmatics of conversation here, I don’t think, and mine aren’t understood either.

Being wheeled around was quite strange. At every corner I would flinch in case someone was coming around the corner in the opposite direction. My bad leg was sticking out so would have been the first point of contact. Fortunately, there were no collisions. However, on each of the three occasions that my physiotherapist wheeled me somewhere, she banged my foot against a wall.

Back in my room I was desperate to get some sleep during the afternoon so that I wouldn’t miss the football that night. However, the bloke in the next bed was sleeping and, no matter much I turned up my MP3 player and no matter how many times I clapped my hands loudly or cleared my throat violently, I couldn’t wake him up. His snore was a deep, cartoon growl which shook my book as it lay in my hands. I even tried shouting indiscriminate noises as a last resort, but nothing would stop the guttural rumblings. Eventually I did the only thing I could: I asked, sheepishly, to be moved.

My new room was eerily silent and I was unable to sleep.

The England v Sweden match kicked off at 3am Singapore time. As soon as Michael Owen went down, I thought to myself, “that looks familiar.” Indeed, the poor chap now has exactly the same injury I’ve just had repaired. As you can imagine, every time they showed it I turned away from the screen. They kept showing it, though. Worse still, the stupid commentator we have here had a Peter Crouch quip ready. As Crouch came on (all six feet seven of him) he said: “And it’s Crouching tiger, hidden Owen!”

Buffoon.

I’m going to race Michael Owen back to fitness, anyway. Look out for me in the Boxing Day fixtures.

England played well in the first half, but then it fell apart again. I wasn’t at my supportive best, though: I was still a bit groggy. When our second goal went in I was surprised that I hadn’t immediately gone “Yes!” and everything, like I usually do. I had to persuade myself that it was worth the effort, and finally managed to punch the air in delight and utter the affirmative word just after Sweden had restarted the game. Despite my recent criticism of Roger Hargreaves, I thought he was probably our best player apart from Joe Cole. I’m hoping we play against Argentina at some point just so that Roger Hargreaves can meet up with Mr Messi.

Sorry.

Anyway, after the game I probably got some sleep. After all, I was going home the next day. I needed to keep my strength up.

I was let out the next morning after another painful wheelchair journey courtesy of my physiotherapist. This morning she had some advice for me: "Don't kick anything," she said. I joked that it was lucky she had told me that because otherwise I'd have gone home and started playing headers and volleys. Rather sternly she told me that doing this would slow down my recovery.

Before I was discharged, I also had time to browse some magazines which had a sticker on them which said, “Please do not remove (for reading purposes only).”

It was good to be home. But a little bit scary too. Suddenly, I was all on my own.