The Morphine Constipation Olympics
I have just won Gold in the morphine constipation Olympics. The baby has been delivered, I'm estimating he was around 1lb 3oz and for those who want to know he looked like his father with just the merest touch of jaundice.
Helen was out taking the dog for a walk and of course this was when my recalcitrant bowels decided time was up, the train was in the station, in fact it was bumping against the buffers.
The previous bollock washing incident having incapacitated me to a large degree this required thinking outside the box, no pun intended.
Sometime earlier in the morning I'd given in and taken some codeine...couldn't somebody have pointed out that I was spelling fucking codeine wrong...sorry I digress, which had taken the edge off the back pain. The train was tooting it's horn and rattling backwards and forwards by now, there was no time to waste.
So manoeuvre myself to the edge of the mattress, grab the office chair and jam it against the bookshelf to stop it moving. Somehow or other I managed to get myself crouched on one foot with the plaster stretched out in front of me. At this point my ankle is urgently trying to attract my attention and complain about what's going on. The next bit is a bit hazy as it involved quite extravagant amounts of pain but it did result in me sitting in the office chair.
No time to sit congratulating myself, pull myself through the door vaguely wondering whether the fact I could no longer feel my toes was, in actual fact, a bad thing, possibly a very bad thing. Grab the walking frame, no one is allowed to say the word 'Zimmer'. Use the frame to row across the hallway to the Nirvana that is the downstairs loo. Manage to get myself, an office chair and a Zimmer frame into a space designed to hold one human being.
Damn, fuck and bollocks, try to pass the frame back over my head but it jams against the top of the door frame. Oh for bejiggery fuck's sake! Push myself backwards out of the loo, get rid of the frame. Charge back in with no regard for my own safety and launch myself onto the loo seat. You're fucking joking, I can't remove my own pants, by now the back pain is so severe I can't lift my arse off the seat. Grapple desperately with my own underwear, aware that any second I'm about to re-enact the old joke about the Irishman and the Guiness, albeit I would be playing all the parts myself.
Manage to extract myself from my pants finally and... nothing. I kid you not, not even a small rendition for the arse trumpet in the key of C. Right I'm not having this, time for the squeeze. Bear in mind I've been lying in bed for the last four days. Just standing up makes me light headed. I take a deep breath and push...kids don't do this.... especially with a bad back. The room went grey and i nearly walked into the light. I swear I could hear bands of angels calling me home.
After all this drama it's a bit of an anti climax, another more considered push and the deed was done. I sang a few bars of 'You are my sunshine', inspected my latest creation and sent him off to play with his friends at the seaside.
Helen was out taking the dog for a walk and of course this was when my recalcitrant bowels decided time was up, the train was in the station, in fact it was bumping against the buffers.
The previous bollock washing incident having incapacitated me to a large degree this required thinking outside the box, no pun intended.
Sometime earlier in the morning I'd given in and taken some codeine...couldn't somebody have pointed out that I was spelling fucking codeine wrong...sorry I digress, which had taken the edge off the back pain. The train was tooting it's horn and rattling backwards and forwards by now, there was no time to waste.
So manoeuvre myself to the edge of the mattress, grab the office chair and jam it against the bookshelf to stop it moving. Somehow or other I managed to get myself crouched on one foot with the plaster stretched out in front of me. At this point my ankle is urgently trying to attract my attention and complain about what's going on. The next bit is a bit hazy as it involved quite extravagant amounts of pain but it did result in me sitting in the office chair.
No time to sit congratulating myself, pull myself through the door vaguely wondering whether the fact I could no longer feel my toes was, in actual fact, a bad thing, possibly a very bad thing. Grab the walking frame, no one is allowed to say the word 'Zimmer'. Use the frame to row across the hallway to the Nirvana that is the downstairs loo. Manage to get myself, an office chair and a Zimmer frame into a space designed to hold one human being.
Damn, fuck and bollocks, try to pass the frame back over my head but it jams against the top of the door frame. Oh for bejiggery fuck's sake! Push myself backwards out of the loo, get rid of the frame. Charge back in with no regard for my own safety and launch myself onto the loo seat. You're fucking joking, I can't remove my own pants, by now the back pain is so severe I can't lift my arse off the seat. Grapple desperately with my own underwear, aware that any second I'm about to re-enact the old joke about the Irishman and the Guiness, albeit I would be playing all the parts myself.
Manage to extract myself from my pants finally and... nothing. I kid you not, not even a small rendition for the arse trumpet in the key of C. Right I'm not having this, time for the squeeze. Bear in mind I've been lying in bed for the last four days. Just standing up makes me light headed. I take a deep breath and push...kids don't do this.... especially with a bad back. The room went grey and i nearly walked into the light. I swear I could hear bands of angels calling me home.
After all this drama it's a bit of an anti climax, another more considered push and the deed was done. I sang a few bars of 'You are my sunshine', inspected my latest creation and sent him off to play with his friends at the seaside.
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