Saturday, June 30, 2007


I had my staples removed yesterday, and for the most part it was without incident with the notable exception of the large woman who looked like Baron Silas Greenback from Dangermouse who took it upon herself to sit next to me in the waiting room and insist on talking to me and minor curiosity that my taxi driver had a blue biro in his right hand whilst he drove.

I’d clocked Greenback the moment she waddled in to the medical centre. She had the deepest voice I’ve ever heard in a woman, so much so when I heard her speak I assumed her to be a fellow member of the male gender until she gave her name to the receptionist. She squashed into the chair next to me with her fat rolling over from her seat and actually touching me. She also had especially poor body odour. I did my best not to look directly at her whilst I answered her intrusive questions until my name was called.

15 of the 18 staples were removed from my knee without any real discomfort, but 3 hurt like a bitch and bled a little. I was glad that I’d pre-warned the nurses that I was a big coward with no tolerance to pain whatsoever. They were very kind and told me I was “very brave”. This made me feel like I was 7, rather than a (currently) heavily bearded 30 year old, but I kinda liked regressing. I’m not entirely sure when I become such a wimp- but my own cowardice and squeemishness often takes me by surprise.

MP3 Toongae:

Neal Casal – Tonight I’m going to Bleed

Super Furry Animals - Short Painkiller

Pavement- Sensitive Euro Man

Stevie Wonder- Ordinary pain

Phat Kat- Nasty Aint It

Kings Of Leon- McFearless

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Should have stayed in bed

After a week of cabin fever I finally left the warm(ish) and safe confines of the flat this morning to go to my first Physio appointment. My pre-ordered taxi arrived on time at 8am and Lisa helped me down the many, many stairs and waved me off on the door step in her dressing gown with a look of concern across her face. I felt like it was my first day at school or something.

The taxi was in fact, rather confusingly so, a minibus and the driver was ever so helpful as I struggled to get in the passenger seat.

“Easy now” he half heartedly muttered.

He was in his early sixties, and had Reg Varney type Brylcreemed hair and the aura of some one who is, or was a heavy smoker. Should you ever had attended my school and were unfortunate enough to get the Acheason’s busses-namely the Knox/Jennyfield ones as I did and recall Ken and Ken then you’ll know where I’m coming from.

I’d given myself 45 minutes to make my appointment but hadn’t counted on my driver not knowing his way around Liverpool and he took me the longest way that was possible. Not only that but he insisted travelling via the notoriously busy Queen’s Drive. The conversation was okay until he started to slag off the Council and the City of Culture. Although I kind of agreed with most of what he was saying but after 15 minutes of being stuck in traffic with a painful knee and some oily cabbie shouting from his soap box I’d had enough and tactfully changed to conversation to the weather.

It became clear after twenty five minutes I was going to be late. So I tried to call the hospital to let them know, but my cabbie chum told me we were just around the corner and not to worry, so I hung up before anyone answered. After all I’d never seen this Hospital before so could only take his word for it.

Ten minutes later and we were only ten feet closer to our destination, I decided to call. As I dialled he started banging on about the state of the road and the lack of decent car parking facilities for the local people. I gestured towards my phone to indicate that I wasn’t being rude, but I needed to make a call. He didn’t stop gassing though. Eventually after waiting for a polite moment for me to make the call I just dialled the number, held the phone to my ear and waited for an answer, all the while he was still bemoaning the Council’s so called efforts to get the city’s roads road worthy. When the receptionist answered I couldn’t hear her because of the combined noise of the mini bus’ engine, the radio, his taxi C.B and his incessant chatter. I told her my name and appointment time and apologised that I was running late and that I couldn’t quite hear her.

Ten or so minutes later we’d arrived at Broadgreen Hospital. I told him the name of the building and he calmly told me that I’d have to go to the main reception. I paid him (£8!) and thanked him before struggling to get out of the taxi. I almost slipped and fell.

“easy now”

“cheers!” and called him a dick head under my breath.

I was 15 minutes late and was sure that they’d have given my appointment to someone else. As I walked- well crutched (what word describes the motion of moving under the aid of crutches?) my way to the reception I started to concoct excuses in my head.

The receptionist, a pretty thing in a black polo necked jumper was on a phone call and put her hand over the receiver when she saw me.

“Therapy Dept please?”
“Down the corridor turn left then right. You can’t miss it”

I followed these directions but ended in the Osteoporosis Department. I had to wait in a queue for five minutes before being told that the receptionist was crap and that I was on the wrong side of the building.

I raced off as fast as I could down another generic hospital corridor over a bridge, down some stairs and down another long corridor past the blood transfusion department to the physiotherapy section, but even going as fast as I could took ten or so minutes. I raced past the elderly gentleman on a Zimmer frame and almost collapsed with exhaustion at the reception.

“Hi- I’m sorry I’m late…I’m here for my 8.40 appointment”
The chubby but pretty faced receptionist looked up at the clock which was at 9.10.
“The taxi driver was a buffoon and your main receptionist is hopeless” I gasped still trying to catch my breath.
“That’s okay- did she send you to Osteoporosis?”
“As a matter of act she did?”

“That sounds about right. I’m sorry about that- you can’t get the staff these days. Okay, what’s your name and the first line of your address please?”
I gave her all the necessary data protection answers she asked.

“Hmmm; there’s nothing on the system for you. Are you sure it was today”
I grimaced and pulled out the piece of paper I’d written the info on after they’d called me last week.

“Yeah- today at 8.40am"

“Can I see that?”

“Sure…I guess?”

I handed her the scrap of paper which was by now covered in doodles and other messages and the word ‘MILK’ written in huge ink letters that Lisa had scrawled on as a reminder to herself along with my details for my staple removal of Friday. I couldn’t see why she’d want to see this it was hardly evidence.

“Hmmmm” She said examining it closely.

She stood up walked over to chat to another clerk who was in the ‘record room’ located behind the desk.

The other clerk came over and asked me the same questions and I responded with the same answers-patiently I may add. She eventually went and checked in a massive tower of paperwork.
“Ah ha! Found it!” She exclaimed after thumbing her way through this truly impressive stack of paperwork..

“Phew- thought it was going to be one of those days” I said to the chubby receptionist who reciprocated my relieved smile.
“Oh- it says this appointment was cancelled by phone toady”
She walked over with the appointment sheet with ‘cancelled by phone 26/06/07’ written across it.
“I never cancelled it” I said stubbornly.
“Are you sure?” asked chubby.
“Oh- quite sure”
“I don’t know how this could have happened? ” She called out to a man with a white shirt and awful Daffy Duck tie on.
“Have you taken any calls to cancel any appointments today?” She asked.
The man shook his head.
“Not today…why?” He replied walking towards us.

By now my good leg (ole righty) was hurting from taking all the weight from my left leg and I could feel my temper getting shorter and my eyes were starting to roll.
“Does it matter? I still want the appointment” I asked politely and hopefully.
“Of course, do you want to take a seat please sir”

I duly obliged and slowly sat down in the waiting area.
They were still discussing the cancellation and a rather large black woman tottered over to join in. She looked annoyed and turned around to me.

“You phoned up half an hour ago to cancel”
“Nope. ‘fraid not” I answered.
“Yeah you did, Matthew yeah?”
“Yes- but I never phoned to cancel. I called to say I was running late because of the traffic”
“No- you definitely said ‘to cancel the appointment’ as you were unable to make it”
“Sorry- I think there’s been some confusion. When I called I was literally around the corner. Why would I cancel when I was so close? I was just trying to be courteous.”
“Well it would have been more courteous if you’d been on time!” She said emphatically and walked off.

I tried not to let it get to me, but it had. I sat there twiddling my thumbs looking over at chubby and her cohorts.

“We’ll try and fit you in soon Matthew” she said apologetically.
“thanks….sorry about the confusion” I said and regretted apologising instantly.
“Yes well can you try and make it on time next time please?”

After nearly 45 minutes of waiting the Physio called me in.

I ‘crutched’ over and sat on the bed.
After three simple manoeuvres, she asked me to continue doing what I was doing and to book an appointment for next week.

“That’s it?” I asked.
“Yes, unless you’ve got any concerns you want to ask me about?”
“Errr…oh yes! When can I get the wound wet? I’m dying to take a bath”
“Well I’d leave it at least a week after you’ve had the staples removed.”
“Okay then…thanks”

She helped me put my trainers back on and led me towards the reception.

“After next week we’ll try and get you using your crutches less- a bit more weight baring on it- but if you want you can go swimming- front crawl only though!”
“I thought you said I couldn’t get my knee wet?”
“Yeah….oh? Erm…actually don’t go swimming. See you next week!”

‘How reassuring’ I thought.

She left me with the moody black woman to book another appointment.
“Next Thursday okay?”
“That’ll be great thanks…what time?”
“Okay thanks…”
“..Better make it 10am, as I know you find it hard to get out of bed early in the morning”
“I…oh, okay. Ta” I said shaking my head with contempt.
I hobbled down the corridors and to the main reception where the fit girl in the black polo neck jumper was still on the phone and filing her expensive looking nails.

“Is there a taxi rank anywhere please?”
“Just go out the door and turn to your left…you can’t miss it!”
I walked out and turned right finding the taxi rank within seconds. As I waved it over I realised that I’d left my piece of paper with the info regarding my staple removal at the reception.

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!!!” I thundered.

Reluctantly I hobbled slowly and angrily back down the corridor over the bridge, down the stairs and down the annoyingly long corridor past the blood transfusion department to the physiotherapy section.

Chubby was sat at reception.
“Back again? What did you forget?”
“I gave you a piece of paper with some info on it- which I need when I get my staples removed”She looked blank at me the clicked her fingers once the penny had dropped..
“I remember! Just give me second, though I think I may have thrown it away”
She searched in vain for a minute or so on her desk.
“No sorry. I must have thrown it away.”

I thought about asking her to look through the bin, but realised it was futile, after all as she said ‘you can’t get the staff these days!’ Anyway, surely the NHS treatment Centre where I’m getting my staples removed would have all my information on their system…surely?

When I eventually climbed wearily into the taxi drenched in perspiration I realised that I’d have to go through this rigmarole on Friday and imagined the scenario “I gave the info to a chubby woman working at Broadgreen!!” and shuddered and the prospect.

“Where to hop-a-long?” Said my cheerful cabbie.
“Stationary Box! And step on it” I replied.

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Only When I Laugh...

So hospital eh?

What a cool experience! I love hospital…seriously. What could be better? Laying in bed, pleasant nurses bringing you food, tea, drugs etc. I had a blast!

I wasn’t all fun, fun, fun though I did have to wear a pair of pants that resembled the little white net you put your washing powder tablets into. I also had to have several injections, which whilst not all that unpleasant made me act like a child.

As I commented of the day of my day of arrival to the ole’ hospital I was slightly nervous, though this was cleverly disguised as hunger. I was frickkin’ starving. I just drank as much water as I could and chewed my way through as much chewing gum as Big Sam Allerdyce and Alex Ferguson combined.

My taxi driver who drove me from Runcorn station to my impending date with the surgeons looked a lot Dan Castellaneta and didn’t ask me what I was going in for. The fucker should have seen I was anxious and at least given me a token conversation. This rudeness cost him his tip! (He won’t be doing that again I fear)

Having already been to this particular facility I knew where to go and I was mentally prepared as I could have been.
After a ten minute wait and more water and chewing gum, my name was called along with anther chap’s. He stood up and I followed the porter, the other patient and his tidy looking blonde girlfriend whom I’d clocked as soon as I walked in. This made me feel ever so slightly ill at ease. We were led into a lift and a two minute walk later we were in a ward. There were four beds, two of which already had people in their gowns. These two guys were both in their late fifties/early sixties and one of them was a rather hefty looking chap who was laying on his side reading a copy of the Express. The other look quite sensible as if he’d been an Bank Manager or something.

Eventually a young and not particularly good looking nurse arrived and drew the curtains around me. She asked me to get changed into my gown and pants. I wanted to make sure that I wore the gown the correct way round this time and regaled my story of putting on backwards last time. She found this hilarious (as did a nurse friend of mine when I told her) especially when I explained that the nurse then told me they could be worn either way- though she failed to point out that my knackers were on display. She proceeded to ask me a slew of boring but necessary questions then shaved my knee with a electric razor.

About ten or so minutes later I was led by the not particularly good looking nurse to where I’d be getting ‘cut’. I had to wait outside for several minutes whilst a women (An anaesthetist I’m guessing) asked me more of the same types of questions. She was wear clogs and the archetypical surgeon’s scrubs. She was alarmed when I told her I’d drank lots of water and had chewing gum, in fact she looked so concerned thought I’d put the kybosh on the whole procedure.

“No one said I wasn’t supposed to do this!” I repeated apologetically.

She gave me that look as if to say it was obvious. My life was in her hands so I decided not to argue.

I was led into the operating theatre where there was a solitary and scary looking table and approximately 5 people cleaning and sorting surgical apparatus (I assume it was surgical apparatus) wearing the mask and cap and scrub type regalia. Some beardo hippie looking type doctor attached a valve into my left hand (which hurt) and the anaesthetist strapped a huge tourniquet across my thigh. I winced with pain as the velcro on the tourniquet removed several hairs on the inside of my upper thigh -millimetres from my tackle. She laughed and told me not to be a baby- I demanded the drugs and they duly obliged.

“You’re going to stat drifting off shortly” Beardo said as I could feel the anaesthetic entering my veins.

“I’m going to count…1…2…3”

I felt my face go funny- sort of pins and needles, which was akin to the first time you smoke a cigarette, I felt dizzy and before I could get a remark about him being like Derren Brown I let out a girly giggle and I was out….

I can sort of vaguely remember a female doctor telling me to remove my oxygen mask. I was very disoriented and I wanted to go back to sleep.

“How’s the pain?”
“How would you rate it? 1 out of 10?”
“It really hurts does it?”
“yeah- you’ve done the wrong leg”
“Only joking….” And I drifted back to sleep.

I awoke again and tried to crack the same joke. In fact looking back at it now, I regrettably said it six or seven times to this very patient soul who was still stood beside me.

“We did the ACL
“All went well…”
“You’ve done the wrong leg….zzzzzzz”

I awoke again and she was still there. “piss off and let me get some kip” I thought but didn’t say out loud.

She chatted to me trying to rouse me from my slumber taking about iodine and other complex medical issues. My doctor came over and said something, but I couldn’t hear him. It was like the teacher in Charlie Brown; “wa wah wa wah wah wah wa”.
I noticed a clock and it said 4.30pm. I walked into the operating theatre at 12.20...some sleep huh?

I was wheeled back to my ward on the bed and I felt like a child. It was great. We slowly glided through corridors, in a shiny metallic lift, past some pretty nurses sat behind a reception. As I trundled past them they gave me a sympathetic smile and I in turn gave them the thumbs up as if I was a RAF pilot who’d been shot down during WWII- their hero!

Soon I was back in my ward and one of the two gentlemen from before greeted my return and I saluted him.
All I wanted to do was fucking sleep. This was thwarted by nurses who insisted on taking my blood pressure and temperature every 15 minutes. It seemed that every time I closed my eyes I was awoken by them with their kind smiles and reassurances. I must admit I was starting to like it there.
In between nodding on and off and having my temperature and pulse taken, the phone by my bedside rang and Lisa was on the other line asking how it went. I grunted down the phone for five minutes but was feeling pretty lousy and extremely thirsty and from what I gather from speaking to her afterwards – I made little sense.
The two guys opposite had knee replacements. I lay on my back thinking this was a pretty sweet life as another nurse pumped some drugs in me via the valve on my left and.

The heft patient laying next to the guy opposite me was something of a character, something of an old sage if you will. He had a Ricky Tomlinson type scouse accent and cracked jokes at any given opportunity to the nurses and patients alike. As I tried to sleep I could hear him chatting to the other knee replacement guy opposite me about how he only had an epidural and was awake during his procedure.

“I could hear them sawing my bone and stapling me back together.”

He then spent the next hour or so ringing around his huge family, kids, grandkids, nephews etc. He had a very sweet way of saying “hello” when the person he was calling picked up the phone. It was the kind of ‘hello’ you may expect a dear old cleaning lady to say as she popped in the office to give it a quick Hoover before calling everyone love and discussing Coronation Street.
I didn’t have my glasses on so I couldn’t exactly make out what he looked like. He was a hefty fella though and no mistaking.

After a good snooze I awoke to the sound of the guy opposite my puking and apologising whilst doing so.

“I’m dreadfully sorr---bluuuuuuueeeugh!!! This has never- bleeeeugugh oh I’m so sorry Speeeeeewwwughhh” I awoke feeling much fresher and was offered some tea. This made me feel sick and I got the spins. Despite not feeling hungry I accepted some sandwiches which I ate with my head in my hands, knowing that I must be hungry so this will make me feel better and fighting the sickly feeling in my head and gut.

Thankfully they stopped checking my temperature and blood pressure and they wheeled in the chap who came in with me (the one with the fit girlfriend). He looked very sleepy and didn’t answer many of the inquisitive questions asked by the hefty chap. I chatted to the two other patients and the big chap relayed a dozen or so anecdotes about when he was a copper in the seventies/eighties and the injuries he’s had. Despite my reservations that this man was a twat of the highest order, I was entertained by these stories as was the nurses and other patients.

I felt very comfortable on the bed, and listened to my MP3 player whilst the other patients had their visitors. Despite insisting Lisa didn’t make the arduous trip to Runcorn (From her work this would almost take and hour and a half there and the same back) I wished that some of my friends had offered to drive her there.

Groggy, I watched Gordon Ramsay’s ‘The F Word’, was given more tea, biscuits and drugs. I asked the large and friendly African nurse how I was supposed to take a piss. The nurse drew the curtains and gave me a bottle.
“Can I not walk to the toilet?”
She pointed to the valves and other apparatus coming from underneath my bandage and out from my knee.


After nearly fifteen minutes I finally managed to squeeze some dark yellow urine into the bottle. It smelt funny.

When the nurse collected it she gave it an impressive look and congratulated me.
”If you hadn’t passed any urine we’d have had to have out a catheter on”

“And trust me YOU don’t want THAT!” shouted the big bloke whilst the other knee patient pointed to his and winced.

The pressure was on.

I went to sleep fast.

I awoke to see the nurses switching on the lights above the big patient. ‘Wow! That was one of the best night’s sleep ever’ I thought. I looked at the time and it was 12.30am. Great!

After more blood pressure test I was finally left to sleep until 4.30 when I woke up to the dulcet tones from the snoring of the hefty patient and a full and bursting bladder.

“Don’t think about the catheter, don’t think about the catheter, don’t think about the catheter” I muttered to myself as I tried will much gust to take a piss in the bottle in the dark in my bed. By 5am the bottle was almost full and I was fully awake.

I stayed awake and listened to the loud snoring from the big patient, who when he awoke at 6.30 claimed it didn’t sleep all night.

I was then met by the doc at 7am who told me it was unlikely that I’d be leaving that day. Half and hour later a nurse told me the opposite, and after a bed bath- which I’m glad to say I was allowed to do myself my small Indian physio told me the same.

After the physio session where I was given some crutches, I the had to wait until 7pm to speak to the doctor who was to give me the all clear. It was 10.30am. This time dragged. I spent most of this time trying to sleep but chatting and to a certain degree, bonding with the fellow patients. When I was finally told to piss off home, and wheeled out of the ward on a snazzy looking wheel chair I felt very sad to be saying good bye to these men whom I’d spend so much time with, but never once enquired as to what their name’s where.

The taxi driver who drove us straight home, didn’t say much but had strong B.O and a photo of his kid bluetacked on to his dashboard.

When we got home and up the miles of steep stairs, I tried to make myself comfortable and raised my glass (well my tea- I’ve been booze sine I went in) to the hefty chap and the other guy, who were to remain in the hospital until Sunday at least. 5 days!!!! The Lucky cunts!


Cold War Kids-Hospital Beds

LCD Soundsytem- Never as Tired as When I Wake Up

Noah John- Infirmary

Tiger- I’m in love with RAF Nurse

Sunday, June 24, 2007


I lived...

The doc's have signed me off work for six friggin' weeks- so as previously stated expect lengthy rambles more frequently.

My knee is swore and uncomfortable but other than the fact that I haven't washed my hair since last Tuesday all is well, except my carer (Lisa)is starting to quietly air her grievences at the situation.

"Shut up and bring me a sandwich"

The pics above is what my knee looks like at the moment

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

'clear liquids'

Well I’m off to hospital today for my knee operation. I could be out by later today or I could very well be in there for a couple of nights. I'm not allowed to eat and can only drink 'clear liquids' i.e. black and or green tea.
I'm rather hungry too.

I’m going to be off work now for a few weeks- so expect frequent blog entries unless I become so self absorbed in watching daytime TV and sit waiting for a message on Facebook- which I am thoroughly bored with already I’m hasten to add.

Sadly, due to a thoroughly bizarre two weeks, I’ve not been posting any blogs. Rest assured I’ve been writing them (well amalgamated into one lengthy one) and no doubt this tale of self-indulgent woe , disaster and cowardice will be on this hallowed pages soon…unless of course I die during the operation…oh shit…I could die I suppose?...great!!

Okay- if I do- then will someone please tell Lisa that I still (despite her not believing me) that I want ‘The Monster Mash’ to be played at my funeral!

Monday, June 11, 2007

here we go again....

After the recent Big Brother race problem- in which they were dead on in kicking her out of course- the resulting furore has caused a tidal wave of poor responses from our good ole British public. Nothing irks me quite as much as white folks trying to justify using the 'n' word by saying "they" use it all the time...or "its in hip hop lyrics" etc. I picked up the Metro-the free paper- on the train this morning and this was the opinion of three fuckwits who decided that their opinion on race and racism is so important that they felt the need to write to the paper to express their views and some dim schmuck in the paper's office snorting loudly in agreement. (I do appreciate the hypocrisy in that statement) The emphasis of these letter's was that it was people in the black community who are to blame- which is the biggest pile of tosh I've ever heard. Not only that but some fool actually wrote in to say something along the lines of how come no one has pulled up the Housemates on there bad language which is just as bad!! I think not madam, I think not….

Thus far no one (that I've heard at least) has brought into question the role of white writers/directors etc who use the word frequently and somewhat unnecessarily in their work such as Quentin Tarrentino (does the sign say 'Dead N***** storage' to you?) , Kevin Smith (Porch monkey's -we're taking it back) or even Simon Pegg (whazzup n******?). Now that the taboo seems to have been lifted and it’s seen as okay to use the word are you surprised that someone with no brain cells comes out with this sort of clanger? Surly recent events; notably Ron-I'm not A Racist-Atkinson, Michael I'm not funny anymore and I'm not a racist either- Richards ought to have put his issue to bed- I thought it was quite simple-just don’t use the word!!!

I mean; how stupid do you have to be to say that word on a TV programme that picks up ever utterance and whisper and with whom had been embroiled in a race storm previously. What is worrying is a) her justification and subsequent statements saying she didn't cause any offence-when it was quite clear she had b) a large number of the good ole' flag flying, Sun reading, overweight, Findus' Crispy pancake eating, England shirt wearing fuckers making up a portion of the British public people not seeing any harm in using the word and most importantly c) how that word could just slip out?! One of my all time favourite songs uses the 'N' word some thirty plus times-but I've never felt the inclination to use that word in any other way except for waving my hands in the air and hollering the badass lyrics to all and sundry (MP3 below).

Alarmingly, it has caused us to watch the damned show after I pleaded with my missus for us to forgo the programme this year and up until then we'd been successful!

I'd been thinking about this clip before this recent fiasco-as it's one of my favourite Family guy moments- with a nod to Curb Your Enthusiasm, which may I add is about the only damned clip not on effing Youtube!

Brian: It’s like that time you faked being racist to get out of Jury duty …
(Cut to Peter sitting on a Jury of which half are black and half are white)

Peter: There sure is a lotta’ Honkeys here today…

Wu Tang Clan - Shame on a Nigga

Sunday, June 10, 2007

NO yoke

Since returning to Blighty, I've been putting off writing a brief description of our little excursion. I did make an earnest start on the following day, but due to the jet lag my enthusiasm waned somewhat and it can be added the ever increasing half completed blog entrees I've written over the past few months. Suffice to say that it was a most splendid holiday, and the Big Apple is indeed a fantastic city to visit. There was plenty of amusing moments, notably my row with the snotty American air stewardess on the way home where I uncharacteristically lost my rag in a very public way.

Since returning home and appreciating all things English/British/Uk'ish/European again I've had little time to spend with my feet up relaxing due to my semi-annual leaflet delivery duties and nipping home to see the family.

After returning to work on Monday, it already feels as if I'd never been away except for the gargantuan amount of e-mails in my inbox and having to repeat the same answers about our holiday- which wasn't a problem until he 20th time a well wishing colleague asked "how was it? What did you get up to?"

Some shocking events however, have lifted my re-crushed spirits, namely the fact that I'd received an e-mail from our HR Dept, informing me that due to some admin error, I wasn't getting paid enough for the whole of last year, and a backdated payment of over £400 will be in my next wage slip, not to mention last April's pay rise which they also neglected to give me. I've tried hard to be pissed off about it, but I can't as a nice big lump couldn't come at a better time....huzzzar.

Then today, the good luck continued when I was struck by an egg thrown by some twunt from a speeding car.

The good luck part was that it pounded into my doughy gut and then proceeded to bounce to the hot pavement before breaking. I looked around to see a boy-racer style black Vauxhall Nova speeding off into the sunset. An egg drive by no less and I had remained unharmed. Joy o' joy! I checked my shirt and trousers to see what damage had been caused from this unnecessary projectile and I genuinely punched the air with glee when I realised that in fact I had escaped unscathed.
I felt exhilarated and I've had a spring in my step since my lucky break.

Of course should the egg have exploded on impact, I would have had to have gone home to change especially if you consider the unnecessary hot weather we're having. Seriously, what are the odds?

This isn't the first time I've been struck by an egg I'm hastened to add, on Aigburth Road about four years ago, I felt as if someone had thrown a golf ball at the back of my head. When I turned around to see what had just struck me so venomously, I spotted a broken egg lying on the concrete. I checked my head for any yoke or shell, but there was nothing, zip, zero, nada, nowt. That time I was slightly freaked out as I was on safe and familiar ground and was extremely paranoid that I had egg in my hair, not to mention slightly shocked (kudos me or not writing 'shell shocked') with the event. I'd gotten away with it then too.

Perhaps I'm blessed, and if I was to be a Superhero this would be my superpower. If it is, then it does no good to mankind or me as far as I can see?