Headpiece stuffed with straw. Alas!
Nov. 12th, 2008 04:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceI seem to have no resources, when I can't work.
Or, no, not that: but the bad hand that prevents my working also prevents my doing anything else useful. Can't cook, can't sort my life out, can't even wash the dishes. (When I was young, there was a TV sitcom featuring a one-armed Irishman who seemed always to be washing dishes with a little mop-on-a-stick. I remember nothing else, but that particular image keeps coming back to me now: not easy, that. And not to be made fun of, as it was.)
And apparently I am no longer any good at not doing useful stuff. Maybe it is the incipience of deadlines, but the sound of Time's winged chariot is like a whip in my ears, that I can't respond to but also can't ignore. Aaargh.
So I find myself sitting up here poking at the computer, waiting for it to tell me something nice: which is not working, exactly, but is not doing anything else either. Nor does the computer cooperate: my inbox is drearily empty of niceness. Where are the mega-deals, the unexpected love affairs, the invitations to travel far and wide...?
Also, I am increasingly worried about my hand. Or not the hand exactly, which I think is pretty much healing to plan: but the tendon down the forearm, which is alarmingly painful if I catch it wrong. Sort of electric-shock painful, at a yellworthy level. I mentioned it last week to my physio, and she was unconcerned; I wasn't reassured even then, and this is a week later.
Stitches should come out tomorrow, and if I'm lucky I'll get to speak to her again, but I don't like this. Given that the last trouble I had with hands & nerves & tendons took two years of physio to sort out, I do not like it at all.
(But! Sean-the-poet has just phoned, and we can go drinking. And then I can go to the opera: drunk, but hey. At least I don't have to sit here poking the keyboard and not working...)
Or, no, not that: but the bad hand that prevents my working also prevents my doing anything else useful. Can't cook, can't sort my life out, can't even wash the dishes. (When I was young, there was a TV sitcom featuring a one-armed Irishman who seemed always to be washing dishes with a little mop-on-a-stick. I remember nothing else, but that particular image keeps coming back to me now: not easy, that. And not to be made fun of, as it was.)
And apparently I am no longer any good at not doing useful stuff. Maybe it is the incipience of deadlines, but the sound of Time's winged chariot is like a whip in my ears, that I can't respond to but also can't ignore. Aaargh.
So I find myself sitting up here poking at the computer, waiting for it to tell me something nice: which is not working, exactly, but is not doing anything else either. Nor does the computer cooperate: my inbox is drearily empty of niceness. Where are the mega-deals, the unexpected love affairs, the invitations to travel far and wide...?
Also, I am increasingly worried about my hand. Or not the hand exactly, which I think is pretty much healing to plan: but the tendon down the forearm, which is alarmingly painful if I catch it wrong. Sort of electric-shock painful, at a yellworthy level. I mentioned it last week to my physio, and she was unconcerned; I wasn't reassured even then, and this is a week later.
Stitches should come out tomorrow, and if I'm lucky I'll get to speak to her again, but I don't like this. Given that the last trouble I had with hands & nerves & tendons took two years of physio to sort out, I do not like it at all.
(But! Sean-the-poet has just phoned, and we can go drinking. And then I can go to the opera: drunk, but hey. At least I don't have to sit here poking the keyboard and not working...)