Big news of the weekend is this: Steve’s broken his arm. He did this by running down the street, tripping, sailing gracefully through the air (so I am told) and landing on his elbow. Crunch. Ouch. But he then got the bus home, called NHS Direct, waited for them to call back, then went to bed when they didn’t. Sunday morning his arm still hurt, so he called them again. They deigned to ring back this time, and advised him to visit A&E just to get it checked out. Somehow the boy had managed to dress himself, eat, play golf on his Xbox/playstation/whatever, walk for 45 minutes to the hospital, ALL WITH A BROKEN ARM. If I get pregnant, he’s having the baby for me, as he appears to have a freakishly high tolerance for pain.
I think it’s the rubber ankles what did it. Steve has ankles that occasionally give while he’s walking, and I’ll see him fall over and straighten up really quickly out of the corner of my eye. So tonight I am at the hospital (St. George’s, my most hated hospital. Really, I hate it. I have a lot of memories of St. George’s, all of them bad). He had surgery this afternoon and gets out tomorrow, at which point we’ll have to come up with a plan for assisted living. Cross your fingers.