Wednesday, August 16, 2006

insert your own leg joke here
I would think of a puntastic headline, but my heart's not in it. My dad has been sick for nearly two weeks now - laid up with the worst case of cellulitis he's ever had (and he's had a fair few). Standing and walking are agony and he's thoroughly miserable, bored and depressed. He's told work that he'll never go back to do another 12-hour stand-in shift; he's retired for good now (he's 74). He feels old, tired and useless. It sounds as though his masculinity is draining out of him. Mum is perky and patronising (after all, it's not as though he's been hospitalised for a week so that a surgeon can untangle his deformed multiple urethras, is it?) and I'm stuck at the end of the phone not knowing what to say. I sent a care parcel of DVDs and am hoping that the super-strength antibiotics kick in soon.
Meanwhile, back at the badger ranch: work is dull (I'm working on changing this, but nothing has happened yet); TA has hit a bleak patch; I've got to book a trip to the PR mothership for next month...and, well, things are just ticking over. I'm fine, but all around me plates are precariously spinning.

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