An undignified morning

So this morning found me lying on my back on a paper sheet on an operating-theatre style bed, wearing a scratchy tie-at-the-back dress, with underwear hitched up at an undignified angle and two men peering down at my groin.

No, I wasn’t trying out some weird, extreme new pubic grooming craze or getting my first vajazzle. I was actually at Royal Derby Hospital having some sort of radioactive dye injected into my hip joint before an MRI scan. And unfortunately, thanks to all the horse riding, my new surgeon friend was having trouble getting through the layers of muscle around my pelvis (god it feels good writing that – first time I’ve ever been accused of having too much muscle) to reach the bones beneath.

And of course, because these were very nice men (and they really were very very nice men - the Royal Derby is a bloody great hospital) we were making polite chit-chat as all this was going on. We covered my job (and I’m pretty sure they didn’t stick the needles in any harder once they figured out I’m a journalist), rugby (like I know a damn thing about that), horses (“expensive aren’t they?” - “yes”) and the future of the newspaper industry (at least I could cover my winces there by pretending it was the pain!).

At one point we broke off in the middle of a discussion on the youth of today (and how inept work experience kids tend to be) to marvel as the main man pulled a needle the size of a fishing rod from my thigh.

“My god,” I joked. “I’m glad I only spotted that when it was going out - not when it was going in!” (said the actress to the bishop)

“Er yes, well we’ve got to put a few more of those in yet,” came the reply.

Gulp.

Anyway, the poky bit of the morning was over soon enough and then I got to have a nice little snooze inside the MRI scanner, which is basically like being put down to hibernate inside a giant bog roll tube.

So what’s all this got to do with avoiding the supermarkets? Well not a lot really, I have to be honest, but I’ve got to write about something and the morning at the hospital is pretty the only thing of interest I’ve got to report today. It has rendered me pretty much an invalid though, so for the next 24 hours I’ll be at the mercy of my friends and colleagues, and I guess I won’t be able to do much if they want to feed me some supermarket-bought grub.

The little information leaflet that I was sent beforehand did mention that I might be sore and unable to drive afterwards, but to be honest I only skimmed it 10 minutes before the appointment and I kind of just assumed it was a warning for the older patients.

But nope, I actually can barely walk this afternoon. And apparently the fact that they found it so hard to reach my joint will only make matters worse. I was told in no uncertain terms not to drive for at least 24 hours so I’m stranded in Derby and I’ve had to call my lovely friend Anna (yes the same one who got me hideously drunk on Friday night) and beg for the spare bed at her house tonight. One of our lovely reporters, Zena, came to pick me up from the hospital and in a one-in-a-lifetime fit of generosity my boss has just popped out to buy me a cheese toastie from the sarnie shop (not the one that does added pubes) - which I’ve eaten half of and now feel that I may throw up.

So, definitely no danger of me ending up in a supermarket today then!