Listening to: Klatsch! - God Save the Queer
Yesterday I got permission from my surgeon to throw away the leg-brace. I haven't yet, it's in the boot of the Sonic Chariot but a suitably lavish ceremony is being planned as I type. Fire may be involved.
Today I visited my physiotherapist who informs me that now the brace is no more, we can 'Really get down to it', manipulation-wise. As I understand it, this means more effort from me, more pain for me, and twice as much lurking around in the labrynthine bowels of Chéz Sonique with a damp towel and a wine-cooler, (see last post). As if the descent into The Dark Months wasn't traumatic enough for us sensitive artistic types...

So I eventually emerged into daylight after one week and five days. I was in dire need of some Vitamin D apart from anything else to be honest. Staying in as a lifestyle just isn't healthy pop-kids.
Once your body ceases to physically move around much on a daily basis, the general rules of body and mind begin to shift in accordance. Well, mine did at least. It's easy to see where good old fashioned Cabin Fever comes from, and I'm pretty sure I could draft out a fairly informative pamphlet on the painful topic of constipation now too. No further details on that one. Mind you, I had the WWW and a couple of chew-toys to keep insanity at bay I suppose.
One thing that seems to happen quite easily is the shift to nocturnal living, especially as some of the best borderline-loony TV is on post-midnight. I'm talking Couples that Kill, Serious Maniacs, and Deviant Outback Activities, after which a restful night's sleep is simply not on the cards I can confirm.
Speaking of strange night-time activity, 1:25am sees yours truly in the catacombs of Chéz Sonique carrying out my hot & cold pre-bedtime knee-treatment. This is where the microwave and the deep-freeze reside, so it is here that it must take place. Damp towel into the microwave at full-power for 2 minutes, then straight onto afflicted knee; then ice (or wine-cooler in my case - see pic) same, straight after. Repeat three times. All being well, there will come a time in the not-too-distant when this won't be necessary, but for now while the rest of decent society sleeps, this is where you will find me.

Hello again boys & girls. This evening finds your roving reporter strangely at peace with the world and most things in it. Yes, my sojourn in the land of my forefathers is doing the trick. Not only are there less stairs for me to hobble up & down, but there's also a back-to-the-womb element involved here, which is definitely therapeutic. Just this afternoon, I was rooting through a cupboard for something when I happened upon an old Bugs Bunny Annual of mine from 1974. And with that chance development, there went my afternoon.
Yes, it all came flooding back. Refreshers, Blackjacks, Follyfoot, Kung Fu Fighting, Mojo Fruits, Music Scene magazine, Sherbert Dabs, The Tomorrow People, Vesta Chow Mein, Minstrels when they were Treats, Snickers when they were Marathons, Wagon Wheels when they were big - All the important issues of the day. Not forgetting of course, Popular music of the Glammerous variety. Ah yes, it was a very different time blog-children... (fade-up miserable brass-band music). Have to say though, I've never met anyone else who ever got the Bugs Bunny annual for Christmas.
So I'm easily entertained at present if nothing else, as you can see.
In other regional news, Fleetwood Pier - the jewel in that town's crown - has burned down. Foul-play is suspected. My hunch is that some property-developer somewhere in the Northwest is keeping very quiet indeed. What with that and the giant French spider episode last weekend, I have my days full just keeping abreast of it all.
Expect further bulletins.

They say your feet always put on 10 pounds when they're photographed or something don't they? Whatever the case, behold those two Sonic beauties up there. Twisted and bent via a lifetime of ill-advised yet fashionablé et fon-kay footwear, they've seen dancefloor-styles come and go, and taken 'em all on. For now though, a truce has been called. Doesn't that pic somehow embody Summer in present-day Cruel Britannia?
Take it from me dear reader, being on crutches when it's raining, particularly barefoot, conspires to make you feel like some bedraggled Dickensian wretch, no matter how glittery you might be feeling inside at the time. Once those skies open, pure animal instinct dictates that you run for cover, or at least move a bit faster. You can't really do that with these things. You just get wetter for longer, which takes some getting used to at first. Unspoken communication comes into play; passers-by look on sympathetically and you start winking at other crutched-up folks, all Masonic like.
I'm sure I shall emerge from this episode a better person, blog-children. Either that or a complete psychopath. Whichever, I'll have learned a life-lesson. Stay tuned.