Crashed-but not burned (a little crispy around the edges, though)

Crispy is right. After I posted last time, I had to do some more hospital stuff-and I was knackered. Pooped. Ready for the knackers' yard. I just basically collapsed in a heap. I dragged myself out of bed early in the morning, got dressed, did my usual morning business, and forced myself to walk at least thirty minutes every day. I only did that because I was afraid not to; my balance and eyesight have suffered greatly from the little hospital excursion. I didn't want anything to get worse by sitting around and doing nothing.

So I haven't touched the computer since the last time I wrote. And on Wednesday night it marked five weeks since the surgery. So that was enough; I will have plenty of time to rest after I'm dead (I wonder who said that first? Weird-but clever-don't you think?

I have had more than enough time to rest- and it seems that rest was what I needed. I felt unable to do anything else. Was it depression? Hmmm...no, I don't think so. I didn't see any evidence of the black dog taking a huge bite out of my ass. I think it was just exhaustion. The entire event-a week in the hospital, the toxic waste the people tried to pass off as food, anesthesia, surgery, and pain-plenty of pain-no surprise that my body just decided to stop functioning. So I rested. Until today, when I washed the kitchen floor, cleaned out the refrigerator, and started to tackle the dust bunnies. Well-they told me six weeks post-op, and it has now been five, so I'm close enough to start living like a human being and stop feeling like an invalid. As for whether or not all the pain was worth it: I'll let you know in October, when the last little bits will be finished, and I will be done with the plastic surgeon.

I think I'm giving up on even the remote idea of any more plastic surgery. Love me, love my wrinkles.

I started meeting friends I haven't seen in awhile. My one ex-neighbor, Clara, met up with me on Wednesday, and was telling me that she is doing huge amounts of overtime. Does she get paid for it? No, she does not. She squeezes five days' work into four days. And no time off. Scandalous. On top of that, my old friend Peter (who got married last year) sent me a very mournful text telling me that he was in the office at his desk at 7am, and didn't leave until after 8pm. Plus he had to do Saturdays, and sometimes Sundays. Overtime? Hell, no. And he works for the government. So I was pretty upset on his behalf. I suggested that he just get up and leave at a reasonable hour, and that the more he did the more he would be expected to do-and without being paid for it.

It isn't just the NHS that is treating their employees like serfs. Just witness the recent junior doctor strikes- and I back those a hundred percent. People can't be expected to work fourteen, fifteen, twenty hours a day for seven days a week and not suffer the effects. With doctors, they aren't the only ones who pay the price: it's the patients who are put at risk. Disgusting, really. What country is this again?

So I texted Peter and told him to tell his boss that he needs to leave at four o'clock because he has to go to the dentist. I said: give an academy award winning performance, hold your jaw and look anxious. Well-the anxious part should have been easy. Did he do that? No. Why? He's afraid he will be replaced, and other areas of the government are worse to work in. So I texted him a list of great excuses to either call in sick or need to leave early. Honestly, I wrote, if they are going to treat their employees like crap, they deserve to be lied to, don't you think?

So here we go:

The dentist: you have a toothache that is so bad your head feels like it is going to explode (don't overdo it. Just work yourself up into the pain by thinking about how you are being financially abused). You are having root canal: hold the side of your jaw and think about how bloody painful it would be if you had to have root canal. Ouch.

The vet: you need to take your dog/cat to the vet. Look anxious. Don't kill the poor thing off, just say you aren't sure what is wrong. This works well (but usually only once) with a dog, cat, pot bellied pig, anything bigger than a hamster (although I do know someone who tried it with a hamster. That was very, very tricky).

Whatever you do, don't use a goldfish. That should be obvious, but I remember a workmate years ago who wanted time off and used her sick goldfish as an excuse. Nobody in the office stopped laughing for a week. Did she get time off? Heh-she's lucky she didn't get fired. Goldfish? Really?? The boss asked-before ordering her back to work. And where did she come from? Essex, of course. Where else?

Kill off someone in your family-but make sure they're already dead, because it would be rather rude otherwise (especially if they then up and die for real. You'll feel like a killer).

So: grandparents work really well (if, as I said, they are already dead-and the boss doesn't know). Of course, this will only work four times-unless you change jobs, of course.

I killed off my grandparents several times (it was okay, because they'd been dead since I was a child). I also killed off seven uncles, four godparents, four brothers, three sisters, and a few cousins. I didn't have any of those, of course-but if I had, they would have been dead. Several times over. I killed off my father, too-but he deserved it.

Always make sure you remember who died, or things could get very complicated. I remember one boss telling me that I must be the kiss of death for my family. Oh, well, I said, you'd be surprised. I left there before anybody figured it out. Really, I should have been an actress. Or a serial killer.

So that is it for now. This is Bank Holiday weekend, so if it is a holiday for you, enjoy. I'm not hitting the Kettle Chips. I'm five weeks post-op, still alive and kicking; I'm hitting the wine.

Cheers!