Last week. I was laying in bed drunk, with Mrs Wing, watching TV, a bottle of prosseco to the good. I kind of move my heel in the direction of my arse, then flick my leg straight. (because it sometimes needs cracking like you would a knuckle). There’s this ungodly crunching noise and I can feel a bang that I presume is bone on bone. Much like a shit X-man this is now a characteristic I developed.
That was ground zero. So this week Mrs Wing has been trying to cajole me into a doctors appointment which I’ve declined as its cartilage I presume, an xray and eventual small op. I’m guessing anyway. I’ve had friends with sporting injuries, I had scrapes and grinds which you get used to.
The plan was wait until it’s a little more fucked then set the wheels of the National Health Service in motion. Until today, that is. When suddenly walking, bending your leg for prolonged periods, and generally being free of pain are far away notions.
Now I’m in the none emergency part of York Hospital’s casualty department, waiting #ForEvs, I think to be told to see my doctor next week. This is my live blog until I get bored or die.