Greetings Blog World. Can't say I've got that much to report as I've not left the confines of Chéz Sonique too many times since my last post. Mind you, on the occasions that I have, I've gained one or two insights into potential problems faced by the disabled community out there.
The first one I came across is the sheer absence of any kind of consideration for the fact that you're hobbling around on crutches given by the bogbrush-mulleted Primark-worshipping Chuckle Brothers clones* that constitute the customer-base of my local branch of ASDA. This refers to both genders by the way. Doesn't bring one's best points to the fore too readily pop-kids. Mind you, this is where a pair of crutches come into their own; They can be brandished, sword-like, to visually enhance a stream of invective at passers-by, and in worst-case scenarios may be used as a very effective blunt instrument....I imagine.
* Apologies to any ASDA customers who may not actually be in-bred/brain-dead/troglodytic.

The story so far: As mentioned previously, I shall be living for the next six weeks in a world without underpants. With this in mind, the only civilised dress-solution, as I see it, comes in the shape of integrated undies. By this I mean the kind that come ready-stitched into sports shorts, usually made of netting or similar. Not very sexy, but they provide my brave little soldiers with a barracks, which is of the utmost importance to both of them.
Urination is now a bit of a production, ie, dragging my sorry ass to a suitable location in which to carry out this bodily necessity. None of this nipping to the bathroom lark...I can't Nip anywhere for the foreseeable. I've already cut down on my fluid intake, which isn't ideal.
Anyhoo, yesterday I thought I had a Really Good Idea as regards this problem. It involved a cut-down mineral-water bottle and a skylight. Sadly dear reader, it did not go well; My clothes all ended up in the washing-machine and I had to double-condition my hair. Back to the drawing board I think. Pity, as that would've saved me a lot of crutch-work.
All suggestions gratefully recieved.

As ever, yesterday's events didn't entirely go as I thought they might. Waiting for the op, I spent over 6 hours watching TV in a waiting area whilst bedecked in hospital attire. You know the kind of thing ... gown, slippers, paper-underpants. Yes, you read it right. Luckily I wasn't amongst the hapless few who mistook the latter for head-wear. It was hard not to laugh though.
It got to the point where I hadn't eaten or drunk anything for 24 hours, (total fasting had been requested) so I was in danger of generally losing my sense of humour about the whole thing. Luckily, just as this stage was being reached, a very large man wearing a mask appeared who then produced a felt-marker and proceeded to draw an arrow on my right-shin (see pic) which pointed to my right-knee. He then led me to a side room where I was laid out on a trolley and injected with what felt like rocket-fuel equivalent painkillers. A veil then descended, some fairies appeared and off we all went. Next thing I knew I was coming round with a very sore and very bandaged right-knee. No Deputy Dawg, no hurling. Things have indeed moved on.
So the Good News is that I don't require a second operation to reconstruct a damaged ligament (this had been presented to me as a possibility). The NSG News is that I have to wear Robocop's spare leg-brace and use crutches for the next six weeks. Six freakin' weeks.
Every single thing in life now needs re-thinking: Underpants of any sort are a thing of the past...can't get 'em on over this thing. Boxers are simply not an option under any circumstances. Ironically, I now get to wear shorts for the first time this summer as I don't possess normal pants baggy enough to accomodate the Robo-Brace. Bathroom visits are pure theatre.
And this is Day 1...

Listening to: Led Zeppelin - The Lemon Song

Things sure move fast in the world of doctors and nurses. The phone did indeed ring, and a voice on the other end informed me that I shall be having my knee-op tomorrow morning. It'll mean missing the Jeremy Kyle Show but what the hell. I've been told to be there for 7am, so all being well I'll be back at Chéz Sonique before noon. I had an idea that I'd be waiting 6 weeks or more, so this is a pretty good development.
Hopefully I can resume my extreme breakdancing career by the weekend.

So, I finally got the ok for an audience with the knee surgeon, one Dr. Venkatesh, to discuss the results of my MRI scan. Hobbled down to the relevant hospital wing in town, and waited with an army of bruised and battered souls to be summoned forth. I don't mind saying, I always feel uneasy in hospitals. Apart from anything else, in present-day Cruel Britannia, you simply don't know what you might be leaving the premises with, bug-wise. It may well be your last trip anywhere.
Anyhoo, with the aid of a plastic replica knee with all-moving parts, Doc-V explained the general scenario to me. I nodded a lot and pretended to understand. Long and short of it is, I'm getting operated on pop-kids - a personal first. I asked if I could maybe have the op done under local anaesthetic, but the answer was no, as they have to go in pretty deep by all accounts.
I haven't been under general anaesthesia since I had a tooth pulled when I was six. Back then this meant gas. The dentist, attempting to tap into my fast young hipster mind-set, asked what I'd like to dream about, man. Deputy Dawg I replied and promptly fell into a gaseous coma where me, Musky and Vince Van Gopher got into all kinds of crazy scrapes on a rickety old train speeding West, pursued by a gun-toting dog wearing a waistcoat and a stetson. When I came to, I vomited on the dentist. I'm hoping that med-tech has moved on a little since those heady days.
Just so y'all know, I don't want one of those Kurt Cobain-style candlelit vigils in the hospital grounds, as the moaning and wailing will interfere with my recuperation. However, I'll send a P.O. box address to all interested parties where flowers, wine, money and HMV vouchers may be forwarded to. Dig deep my people.
I will apparently get the call by the end of September, ie, the next six weeks, so I'm just waiting for that phone to ring, then it's Go-time.