Having said that, I have just been called to the plaster room, but, not reassuringly, have been given a ticket with 15 written on it. The plaster bloke is a bloke called Adrian, who is a recognised man about town, mainly in the pubs. The wo\man who works with him is a very charming lass\lad but just slightly asexual. Seems a strange coincidence that only hideous birds seems to break bones. Either that or fracture clinic shares it's waiting room with face-ache surgery.
Also vaguely worrying is the sounds of screaming coming from the ward next to us, although looking again, it is the A&E.
I take it back, an utter stunner has just wandered into the reception area. It's about time. Probably about time they gave those poor screaming fuckers next door some morphine, or 'done them a favour', not really what you need to hear in what is already a fairly nervous environment.
I have also noticed that I have heard no sawing coming from the plaster room. I will be exceedingly disappointed if I don't get get sawed, especially as I rather wanted them to saw down the 'cut along dotted line' tattoo on the cast.
Have just been in, and been sawed, and bless him, he did his best to keep to the line. My arm doesn't look as skanky as I thought it would, although my hand is minging. Wrist, I've decided, still hurts like buggery, but will see what happens when the overpaid patroniser looks at it. Am looking forward to a long bath, and letting all the skank just wash down the plughole.
Well, wrist hurts like bloody arses, and have been signed off for another fortnight. Have a collection of rathersilly looking exercises to do, but it is good to be unfettered again.
Boo to wrist busts.
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