The waiting game

which was rather delightfully short today. 
My GP practitions in pharmaceutical health enhancers. Not furniture maintenance... 
These tired seats have seen their fair share of sick arses. As in the posteriors of disease-ridden people. Not as in "Wow, dude, that cougar's arse is sick!"  

The leg will have to take a rest for a while, and its owner some pretty heavy-duty anti-inflammatory drugs. The ones that make you drowsy. Clem asked me if I worked with heavy machinery. I told him that I worked in the Mistake Factory. He doubled the dosage. Apparently it will make the afternoon conference calls more bearable. 

I was assured that the smoked hamstring will be good as new in one month's time, just in time to climb up those Ryanair stairs onto the plane to Liverpool. 

And since Clem was in a good mood, and I was too, and for once there was no build up of sick arses in the waiting room, I got my prostate seen to. From the inside.