Divine injustice

(or the hand of God on my right knee)
In a moment of self-righteousness and Pride (In the Name of Disbelief), I seriously underestimated yesterday the power of Stephen and his Templar for the Universal Christian Good, Whether You Want It or Not, Pal.
Having been picked up by his and his cronies' heresy-radar, I was sent a few salves of malevolent cyber novenas, diverting his "campaign of prayer for the confusion in the Tesco boardroom", to concentrate on a campaign of prayer for the infection and immediate swelling of my right knee.
I was very soar when I woke up and I also had a fever*

I too easily brush aside minor complaints but I immediately decided that this time I should see my GP and undertook the 50 minute train journey across town to see this living saint (she actually became a doctor because she believed in healing people?!?!) who acts as our family doctor.
Quite expectedly the Cerberus at the reception informed my that St Nichola is booked until Friday and as I do not usually plan my urgent trips to a doctor's surgery more than let's say 45 minutes prior, I had no choice but to see the GP in charge of the walk hobble-in clinic.

He had a jovial demeanour and a faint yet identifiable Australian accent (or else he was not jovial at all - I tend to find the Australian accent jovial by default - but I think I'm right because he has smile lines around his yet-still-young-rooky-doctor's eyes).
His approach was quite novel: he asked what I thought was wrong me.
I answered that I dared not speculate, not being a doctor myself. But I informed him that Mrs Raheny graduated from the Higher Institute of Internet Diagnostic Science and that she was of the opinion that I had strained my knee while repeatedly holding Mimi up in the air yesterday (with my arms I should stipulate, not my knees) while singing Lionel Richie's Dancing on the Ceiling (this last bit I have to admit, was dangerous).
He declinied to comment. And I wished I had done the same rather than laugh when Mrs Raheny announced her interesting theory to me. I'll be paying for that one day and it has gone on record in my file, to be retrieved when I am better able to get a good bollocking.
I then offered to the young doc that I had cut my knee quite badly while at Nana's about 2 weeks ago, and that it may be a resulting infection that took a bloody long time to get started (a 46a Dublin Pus infection it is called).
He corroborated that second diagnostic and gave me a course of antibiotics (and a friendly advice about not singing Lionel Ritchie songs while holding a 5 year old in the air for her to walk on the ceiling).
He asked me how many days off I wanted and I resisted to temptation to say the whole first quarter of 2012 to settle on a surprisingly zealous 2 days (I AM really soar).
He then proceeded to copy and paste from the last sicknote he wrote last week (and forgot to change the return to work date, so that I am now officially on sick leave from the Mistake Factory from 16/1/12 to 14/1/12).

I'm now back at home and drifting in and out of consciousness.
The kids are good and understanding, when Mimi and Finn visited me upstairs in the bedroom while playing Daisy and Catsy (a new game of theirs involving an angelic little girl and a naughty little cat), they were good enough to include me in the game and christened me Sicky on the spot. They also jumped on my soar knee only twice before going upstairs to destroy something in the attic.

My advice to you dear friends, is never to piss off the Christian Voice (in this case Stephen's voice - that angry moron) and other decent people.

* since we cannot for the life of us remember which thermometers were used for the oral reading of temperature (the Irish way) and which were used for the reading of anal temperature (the French way, and a lot more accurate according to Nana), I had to resort to an archaic yet almost hygienic and not-so-inaccurate method of reading: a quick feel at the worrying state of liquefaction of my goolies told me that my temperature was between 38 and 39 Celsius