Trip of the Year.......

 

So.  

After six months of being housebound because of this bloody COVID it's time to act, I decided.  Much as I enjoy being with My Beloved and our kids, the dog and the cat, much as I love living in Warsaw, eating good hearty food (Polish and my own English specials) and drinking decent Polish beer - such variety! - I need a change of scenery.

Back in Blighty, I have my sisters, not getting any younger and, frankly, not in the best of health, to check up on.  I have My Three Sons, and their families to visit, and a lovely new grandson to meet.   Instead of looking out at apartment blocks and traffic jams, it will be nice to look out at trees and green fields and a huge variety of sparrows and tits and God knows what other birds feeding on the bird tables in my sister's Norfolk garden.  It will be lovely to wander the miles of clean sand at the nearby Holkham and Tichwell beaches.  Eat a good plate of freshly caught fish and chips in Wells-next-Sea.

Visit my mum and dad's grave in my home town of Edenbridge, down in Kent, tidy it up a bit (no doubt that is badly needed) and put out fresh flowers, have a chat with them.  It's a pilgrimage I make whenever I'm in England.  Drive on the correct side of the road in a car where the gear lever is in the right place (to my left) and other drivers by and large obey the Highway Code and use their mirrors and indicators. 

So much to look forward to after nearly a year away.  I checked the Foreign Office Travel Advice website to confirm whether I needed to quarantine for a fortnight and found I was clear.  My passport runs out on New Year's Eve, but by returning early in September there is enough validity. not to cause problems  So all good. I booked my flight, WizzAir to Luton as usual, decided which car to hire, and let my family know I was on my way.  A three week visit.

My first trip of the year beckoned, but not the one I expected.

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This is Lulu.  She is four months old, an English Bulldog, and full of both energy and mischief, as any puppy should be.  We love her dearly.  Now she has had all her shots she needs regular exercise, as much as anything to save the floors in the apartment from being completely ruined.  So we take it in turns to walk her.  Next to our block there is a small patch of grass in front of an old telephone exchange that is waiting to be bought by some enterprising developer, demolished and replaced by a new apartment block.  Beyond that is a Park-and-Ride facility, surrounded by landscaped lawns and footpaths and cycle tracks.  A walk around that complex, as far as the traffic lights at a nearby intersection, is enough for her to do as she wishes, and even chase a couple of butterflies and the odd raggedy-arsed pigeon.  

Generally she is really good, does as she is told and walks (or trots) quite happily where you want her to go.  Because she is a fine looking pooch, we are often stopped by other people, dog lovers who make a fuss of her and sometimes even take pictures.  We often meet other dogs too, of different breeds, and being sociable she enjoys that very much.  Whether Dachsund or Dalmation. Airedale or Alsation, she is happy to have a bit of a romp, until either we or the other owners separate the dogs and go our separate ways.  

But sometimes, especially if the weather is hot - as it has been for a couple of weeks now - she gets a bit stubborn.  So we have to carry her, at least until behind the Park-and-Ride and sometimes further.  Then we try to walk again, but instead of walking she might just let her legs go weak and collapse on one side or the other, or flop onto her belly in that classic Bulldog pose with both back legs straight out behind her and front legs straight out in front, her head resting on her paws and looking at you with a "sod this, I'm going nowhere" look on her face.  It's funny, but frustrating.  At other times, the sound of someone talking the other side of the hedge, or a motor bike passing or something, brings her to a complete stop, she digs all four paws in and remains immobile, staring at whatever has caught her attention.  If you're a pace ahead you don't know until you've walked on a few steps, the lead fully extended until you stop.  For a little dog, she is STRONG.

So develops a battle of wills that generally she wins and is carried home quite happy.  But I can be stubborn too, and want her to do as she is told - for her own safety, as much as anything: I don't want her running out in front of cars and causing an accident or getting hit herself.  This is what happened Saturday evening, as dusk fell.

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We did a lap of the Park-and-Ride with no problems at all, but she had done nothing.  Not a pee or poo in sight.  I decided another lap was needed, preferably at more of a jog than a stroll (that tends to get things moving so to speak...) so instead of heading back to our block I turned left, alongside the complex.  Lulu is far from stupid, and decided this was not a good idea.  This time she flopped onto her left side and looked at me.  I picked her up and carried her to the back of the complex, and explained to her she had to go round again, for her own good.  I kid you not, she sighed wearily as if she understood every word, and gave my face a lick.

I put her down on the grass, and she gave me a filthy look.....  I gave her lead a gentle tug and told her to come - as you do - and started walking.  Not the best idea I've ever had as it turned out.  I took my eye off the ball, so to speak....

She dug her heels in I realised when the lead went taut.  I turned to look and she was standing there, looking at me, solid as a rock.  I told her to move her arse and gave the lead a little tug.  That was it......she pulled back sharply and somehow her head and shoulders slipped back out of the harness and she was off.  I hadn't realised she was so fast as she dashed off in the general direction of Home.  I swore and gave chase, yelling at her to stop.  There are two access roads either side of the car park she ran through, and I was worried some nutter would zoom down one of them (as often happens) and hit her.  She of course ignored me.

By the time I got through the car park she was trotting towards our block entrance, so I speeded up (or tried to).  She speeded up.  So did I.......for a few seconds.  The fatal error was that 67 year old men in flip-flops should not try to outrun sprightly Bulldog pups.  I had no chance.  

As I reached the first car park entrance, again yelling at Lulu to stop, I guess I must have tripped on the kerb.  All I know is I took off, turned a half somersault, and felt searing pains in my right foot and left thigh.  I ignored them and tried to stand, and collapsed in a heap, neither leg was working.  Lulu turned the corner of our block as the security guy dashed out - he must have seen everything on CCTV.  I yelled "DOG!", and waved my arms wildly.   He glanced round the corner, then calling "OK! OK!" ran to me.

He helped me uo and with an arm round my shoulder for support, helped me hobble painfully to the entrance.  Lulu was sitting there, quite happily, looking very pleased with herself for finding her own way home without my help.  Pleased to see me, she wagged her whole body in the way Bulldogs do when they are happy.

She is brilliant, really.

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Up in the lift, leaving a trail of blood from my toe.  Into the apartment.  My Beloved, about to take my son off to a party, looked horrified.  I staggered into the bathroom and sat heavily and painfully on the edge of the bath.  My son took off a blood soaked flip-flop while My Beloved filled a washing up bowl with cold water.  It was the first time I had seen the damage and ir didn't look good.

I sat there for a half hour while the water turned red and the blood sort of panting congealed around the wound and rapidly blackening nail.  Then my daughter carefully wrapped my foot in kitchen roll, changed the water for me, and tried to wipe away the worst of it.  God love her, she's just turned 12.

My Beloved got back, and looked at my toe.  One word: "Hospital".  She called a friend of ours who came to provide help and some light relief, and we tottered out to the lift.  My daighter came too, and we left her at the friend's place (one of her best friends from school is the daughter).  

The hospital was fairly close to the city centre but in a side-street that took a little finding. By this time it was after 11, so My Beloved had to make sure the A&E would see me.  Saturday night?  Of course they would.  I hobbled in, filled in and signed some forms and was led through to the business end while the ladies waited in the Entrance. 

There were about half a dozen people there, including a couple of policemen.  The young orderly asked me what had happened, filled in an on-line form, and asked me to wait, gesturing at some seats.  I hobbled to the one furthest away from the guy, probably my age, panting and coughing into an oxygen mask on a trolley....just to be on the safe side, and made sure my mask was on properly.

Ten minutes wait.  Not bad.  A lady called me and I hobbled into her room. Again I explained what had happened.  She shook her head (I could read her thoughts: "Silly old sod.") and sent me by wheelchair to X-ray.  The porter must have been 70 if he was a day, but what the hell.  The lady radiographer was probably my age, spoke no English and was miserable as sin - I guess she'd had a long shift.  But we managed, she took the pictures and the old porter took me back to another room.  Different doctor.  Some English but not the best.  Broken toe.  Stitches needed then a plaster cast.  On the bed please.  Then the fun began.  

While they cleaned my foot up, I WhatsApp messaged My Beloved to tell her what was happening.  Then the doctor said "I will inject you, painkiller."  Bloody hell, for a painkiller those three injections to my toe HURT.  The air turned blue.  But ok, in a minute my toe will go numb and he can patch me up.

Nope.  I'm not sure what the stuff he used was, but it was bloody useless.  Now I've seen movies where the hero (James Bond, Jason Bourne, whoever...) performs some self surgery, digging out bullets and stitching themselves up without batting an eyelid.  What a load of old bollocks!  I have never known any pain like it, not even when as a 16 year old boy I cut three fingertips off in a factory accident (another night in hospital as they were re-attached not quite as good as new but workable - but that was done under full anaesthetic).  Maybe toes are particularly sensitive (at least mine). Maybe the geezer just wasn't very good at sewing.  But fuck me, it was agony.  I sweated buckets.  I used every bit of foul and abusive language I could lay my tongue to in both English and rudimentary Polish.  I covered my face.  I clutched the sides of the bed.  I desperately tried not to puke (and, thankfully, succeeded). And all while keeping my leg and foot stiff and still for him to stitch away.

It took a good five minutes to insert I think four stitches,  It's now Wednesday, the fourth day after the ordeal, and the wound is still sore. On Friday I have to go back there to have the dressing changed (it's hanging off anyway) and perhaps the stitches out.  I can hardly wait.

On went the cast.  It's not a full one, just the back of the calf and ankle then strapped on tightly with cotton wadding and a bandage.  My Beloved, her friend and the kids were disappointed because they can't write or draw anything on it.  But it goes to just below the knee and will need to be on for 5 or 6 weeks. Presumably it will also be changed Friday).  Quite why I need a knee-length cast for a broken toe I'm not at all clear.  

Another X-ray, this time to make sure the quack had set the toe in the right position.  My radiologist lady was in an even fouler mood, and had problems explaining exactly what she needed, so we had a full and frank bi-lingual exchange of views that I hope made us both feel better.  I know telling her to fuck off improved my temper no end.  But the pictures were fine.

The doctor gave me three papers, all of course in Polish, and sent me on my way.  We had an entertaining photo and movie shoot outside the doors while My Beloved trundled my wheelchair to the car and I struggled my way into the front seat, then we headed home.  It was nearly half past one Sunday morning by then, but the cold beer from the fridge was a delight.

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It was also my last for a while.  On Sunday, My Beloved read through the hospital papers and spent the next hour driving around from apteka to apteka (pharmacies) picking up a fine selection of drugs to keep me going.  There are a couple of anti biotics. There is something to help the bone heal quicker.  Pride of place goes to a forty day course of an anti coagulent - as I'm not going to be very mobile for a while this is apparently needed to prevent blood clots and minimise the risk of heart attacks or something, since my circulation will slow down.  

The fun part about this potion is that it comes in the form of an injection that I need to administer to myself......  It's actually not too bad - the needle is very thin, you squeeze up a roll of fat on your belly (I have plenty to play with), shove the needle in and press the plunger.  There you go, job done in a few seconds, and to my surprise not painful at all.  But weird.  But with all that stuff being ingested beer is off the menu for the duration.  Bugger.

So instead of flying off today to visit Mon Famille back in Blighty, I'm still at home, sitting on my balcony in my rocker typing this.  My leg is up on a chair for some support, and as ordered by the doctor highr than my hip to help the healing process.  I spend most of my time like this, or on the sofa, resting.  I've borrowed a very nice walking stick from someone to help me get around the apartment a bit, but I can't really do a lot.

Thr foot and the other leg (my hamstring is damaged and yesterday we spotted a bruise about the size of a tea plate, delightfully black and blue) is feeling a little easier today though, so I'm getting there.

Oh, and Lulu and I have made up.  She's laying by my chair here (when she's not leading the kids a merry chase around the Park-and-Ride)