Shetland, hips, health service, and Ricard

Shockingly bad sleep. My hip is really sore when I put any pressure on it, so lying in bed is a bit of a challenge. The swelling has now gone down, so the bruising and pain are there. So what do you do when you are not sure what is going on? You go to a doctor and try to get a requisition for an x-tray. I tried. No appointments before August 8. Seriously. Three Tory governments in a row and you have to take a ticket to get sick. The other option is going to Emergency and waiting for (checks wait times on the website) 9 hours 45 minutes. Yeah… I’d try aromatherapy before that.
 
Other than that, today was pretty productive. Did a fair few of the things I had booby-trapped my inbox with. The much-vaunted BIG translation I was supposed to get from the client hasn’t shown up yet, so I sit in front of my computer, refreshing, refreshing, refreshing…
 
Ottawacker Jr. came home with a blood blister on his big toe. He’s still going to make it to practice tonight. Mrs. Ottawacker doing the shuttling around, so I sat down and had a couple of Ricards. Got a friend coming in from BC on Friday, so will take the weekend to relax and then hit the metaphorical gym on Monday. What’s a metaphorical gym? Fecked if I know.
 
Finished off the final episode of the most recent Shetland series with Mrs. Ottawacker. I love that series – right up there for me at the moment. What makes that all the more surprising is that I am no fan at all of Ashley Jensen, the lead actor. So for me to have an almost visceral sense of loss at the end of the episode is a testament to her acting, the scriptwriters’ ability, and the magical work of the camera team. (I can be magnanimous in this because I guessed the killer early on. The process is simple. Pick the most obvious suspect and choose the most sympathetic character close to him/her.) No spoilers though.
 
One final point for the day. I am getting increasingly uncomfortable about not talking about the ongoing shitshow in the world. I actually stopped because there is a chance I might actually have go to the US sometime – and having fat, sweaty border control officers going through my accounts checking for comments about Trump is beginning to look a bit like one of the stages you have to go through rather than a dystopian nightmare. Am I really being cowed by a two-bit scheister with an orange spray tan and a combover? I really was. How embarrassing. Nah, Bugger that for a box of tricks. I’m back on it tomorrow. So, you have been warned… :)