In March I threw a pity party on the subject of cellulitis. This was such a resounding failure I have decided to do it again.
Friday early evening saw me galloping merrily up and down steps in between some serious attacks of editing I have had since I last posted. Friday later evening I was a quivering mass in bed, my teeth playing castanets. Everyone else in the family has had a virulent strain of flu, so I decided to starve and sleep it off. Sixty hours of starvation and sleep didn’t help – and on Monday morning the ankle previously infected was showing clear signs of re-infection. With all the brilliance of a Holmes, I deduced, ‘Oh, so not flu, then.’
Off to fambly doc – who prescribed forty antibiotic pills, each the size of a small boulder, and suggested ten days in hospital. I accepted the pills but declined the ever-so-not-free bed and board, despite his dire warnings of how serious the condition is. It calls for regular glugging of pills, applying ointment twice a day, and staying in bed with my foot higher than my head. I can manage that quite well enough at home, thank you, and in a more tranquil atmosphere (grandkids, dogs and cat notwithstanding) than even a private ward will provide.
Unfortunately I only have access to emails and main blogging functions on my desktop computer. The laptop I am operating on now has serious issues. Its steam-powered engine does not respond well to high-octane fuel.
So those of acute observation who may have noticed some apparent de-colonializing now know why.
The good news and the bad – I have a glimpse of sea from my window; when it is a grey day it goes away. Sky and sea merge invisibly. Suitable conditions, anyhow, to mark the first anniversary of the death of Son-in-Law.