So I have a shit knee.
This isn’t news to me. I’ve known that my knee was shit since its first episode, when I fell 10 inches from a bouncy castle slide onto soft grass and dislocated my patella.
I was 17 and it was my sister’s 8th birthday party. Her friends still think that the ambulance that arrived was part of the children’s entertainment.
In the year following this incident I suffered two further incidents and made the executive decision to have OPEN KNEE SURGERY to make sure that it never happened again. This weekend, my open knee surgery, which involved many, many needles being stabbed into body (of which I am mortally terrified) proved futile.
Last Friday I got drunk. I got drunk to celebrate the nearing of the end of January, to celebrate the fact that I no longer wanted to hibernate in my house for the rest of time and to celebrate my friend’s birthday. I also decided to wear pyjamas that were just that bit too long when I went to bed that night. I tumbled down one step in a skull printed onesie, and my knee cap fell out again.
The paramedic was a moron. He kept asking me if I wanted any more heroin. If you mean morphine douchebag then yes. I want all of the heroin. My onesie was cut off and I spent the night in King’s College hospital. The pits.
I am writing this on the sofa, at my parents house in Scotland. My mother has built me a lair in the sitting room and screams blue murder every time I try and move. I can’t go to the loo without her beady eye checking I dont put my foot down for one second. Clearly this woman has never used crutches. I’m going to have the biceps of Madonna by the end of this run.
Mum has also decided to put me on a ‘healthy healing diet’ and has blocked my passage to the fridge. Yesterday I went to go and find the fish she had left me for supper and was confronted with a corpse. In her absence I crutched my way to the freezer and found a chicken kiev and chips.
The worst thing to have come out of this whole hellish experience is not that my leg brace makes me look like a cross between Hannibal Lecter and Forrest Gump. It’s that my mum has put me in the bath. Twice.