Physios

OK, so it’s been a couple of weeks since the op, and I go for my first post-op physiotherapy session. I am now walking with one stick only, my leg has more strength in it, and I seem to be doing OK apart from the long boring nights. I have gone through catwomen, Emma Peels, batgirls, and Bondgirls. I also tried sheep, but best not to dwell on that.

By the way, for all you insomniacs out there, the most effective thing I tried (and I am actually trying to be helpful here) was counting backwards from some random three figured number in sevens as fast as possible.

Anyway, back to the physio.


I wish

My physio is called Dave (that’s not his real name: his real name is Phil), and he is annoyingly fit looking.



I mean,  I don’t want him looking like Quasimodo  (that’s my job), but he could at least have the decency to look a little less healthy. Give me at least the impression that I might be able to aspire to his level of fitness.

Off he bounces like tigger to the physio room and I stumble after him.



He checks I am doing the home exercises given me at the hospital, and that seems to satisfy him. Then he gets me up on a table and starts pulling my leg and hip about, doing his best to violate every instruction about dislocation I have been given.

Then he gets me to march on the spot and I am lurching a lot.

“Hmmm, we need to get more weight on that operated leg. Now stand erect, shoulders back. Tighten the core muscles. Clench your buttocks. Tighten the glutes. Tighten your left thigh muscles. Don’t lean! That is a classic Trendelenburg gait you’ve got there.



Keep those shoulders straight! Now lift your good leg gently off the floor…”

I instantly fall over, or would have if he hadn’t caught me

“Don’t lean! Keep those knees in line with your hips. Don’t revolve the knees. Ankles aligned with your liver. Make sure your toes are directly over your buttocks. Keep those kidneys at 54 degrees to the vertical, in line with your pancreas, spine, nipples and left testicle at the same time singing the Horst Wessel song…”

I am now trying to balance and think about ten different postures and muscles at the same time. I have never looked more like Quasimodo.



I think I have incurred Dave’s displeasure. He sends me on my way with many sheets of exercises and a couple of rubber bands that I am supposed to wrap around bits of my body and pull against.

 I brighten at the thought of combining all these appliances including the leg swinger and start up a fetish service for High Court Judges