I support my preposterous proposal by the following assertion.
Just over a week ago it was Friday the 13th. Did we have bad luck? Did we have cause to become Triskaidekaphobics? No… BUT…This Friday we had half a lifetime’s crap luck and we’re actually a few years in advance. This means that the universe is about a week early. Defenders of Herr Einschtein’s theory attribute this anomaly to the strike action crippling South Africa, but I doubt it.
I realise I’ve been a tad remiss in updating anyone about the progress of the mangled leg. I offer my humble topologies (especially to the network engineers) for this oversight and promise to do better in the future.
I was to have the 2nd leg op on 16 August. However, on the previous Friday, when I phoned to find out about the MRI scans, the doc’s receptionist calmly told me that he had taken leave – without so much as a by your leave – so to speak.
The BD (Bloody Doc) was scheduled to return on Monday 23 Aug, but they only phoned me on Tuesday 24 Aug to tell me to come in for the scan. I gathered up all my smugness and told them, ‘sorry, I cad’t hab the operatiod, because I gotta code id by dose.’
After 15 minutes of telephonic charades I managed to get the message across and we will reschedule the scan and op for the first week in September.
During this delay, Mrs Chips thoughtlessly decided to contract flu which – bless her dear little heart – she happily shared with me. So from last Thursday until Tuesday, she was a coughing spluttering, sneezing wreck and generally feeling awful.
I managed to hold out until Sunday, but now I’m a coughing, sneezing, farting AND limping wreck.
Scientists here at the institute claim that the human body consists of over 80% water. Most of mine is now in a heap of tissues (thanks to my handy dispenser seen below – order yours now) but my nose is so red, it can now be used to illuminate the whole of Johannesburg’s Red Light District.
Oh, and to make matters just that teeny bit more wretched, we ran out of water on Friday, just as I wanted to bath. That necessitated a terse txt message to the landlady to get the borehole tank filled.
Then…. oh yes, it gets worse dear Reader… on Friday night I had made a curry to try and cheer up the ailing Mrs Chips. But all efforts were negated when – just after she’d gone to bed – a bloody bat flew in, flitting and shitting all over the place.
Now, I’m as broad minded as the next bloke, but I draw the line at sleeping with bat poo(no, that’s not my current term of endearment for the better half, I really mean bat scat). So, waking her as gently as possible with the bad news, and a call to arms, I limped downstairs to get the pellet pistol (we’re armed to the teeth here in Muddler’s Drift).
The ensuing battle would have made the director of Saving Ryan’s Privates completely rethink his opening scene. There I was, pugnaciously galumphing around on one and a half legs, trying to shoot the little pest only to find I was running out of gas (in the pistol, dear Reader, the curry was still performing as nature intended).
So with shouts of encouragement Mrs Chips was dispatched downstairs for another gas cartridge while I flailed around trying to clobber it with the broom – in vain as it turned out.
I suspect I resembled a rap artist on drugs with Tourette’s by the way I was dodging, ducking, weaving, swiping and swearing at this repulsive creature. While I inserted the new gas cartridge (into the pistol – see previous paragraph), Mrs Chips joined in the merry fray wielding a bucket.
Meanwhile the bat was clearly weakening from trying to fly AND wipe tears of mirth as it watched two mad, sneezing, coughing, swearing humans perform lively but unintelligable aerobic routines with domestic cleaning equipment.
After several fruitless attempts (it wasn’t a fruit bat you see) to shoot the dashed thing, we succeeded in moving the battle downstairs into the lounge area. There was a brief moment when my fairer half was downstairs, swearing at it and I was on the top of the steps, on one leg, vigorously cursing it from above – the profane high-ground, so to speak. Apparently bats don’t speak advanced French so it just kept up its infuriating airborne antics.
Things got interesting when Mrs Chips managed to dodge into the spare room and retrieve our two tennis racquets. I peg-legged it back downstairs as fast as I could and opened the front door, just as a terrifying apparition reappeared to take on the enemy. With a wild look in her bloodshot eyes, hair looking like she’d been licking a light socket, windmilling arms and flying racquets, my dearly beloved took occasional swings as the bat flitted past. Every time it came to rest on the thatch, I tried to shoot it.
Suddenly the whole melee was terminated by a mighty forearm swipe from Mrs Chips, who swotted it right out of the door. Two shocked faces stared down at this insignificant little source of all our terror. And I decided right then to write to Serena Williams and offer our services as a coaches in the finer points of the forearm drive.
By the time we cleared up the worst of the debris, we were both feeling unbelievably grim, and my leg was excruciatingly protesting the evening’s activities.
So there you have it. The news from Muddler’s Drift. Not much in the way of news, I grant you, but times are hard.