Weak at the knees: 2019

My winter jaunt was to Cádiz.  I hired a tower.  There were 116 steps from  pavement to bed.  Up through a building, past an angry man, out of a door onto a roof, down some steps, across the roof, up a ladder and there was my four floor tower.  Suspended from the sky was my bedroom.

I didn´t have a heart attack, but I did wear out my knee.

Having no car seemed, and was, a good idea, but I walked every day for miles and miles.  And the town outdoor gym was irresistible.

I hobbled home when my time was up.

“You realize you have been acting like Peter Pan” scolded my osteopath looking down his long nose.

I acquired a “knee man” called Mr M.  Everyone I know of my age has, or knows of a knee man.  Surgeons are so extraordinarily modest that they drop the doctor title and become just plain “Mr”.  I have never actually met a surgeon who was not unashamedly arrogant. So, I can´t quite understand that convention.   My Mr M takes the cake.

“How do I know you are a good knee man?” Ask I

Him: Puffing himself up

“How many knee men do you know who got a BAFTA for open knee surgery on Channel 5?” He leans across the desk and hands over the link he has scribbled down on a doctoral notepad.

So, I´ve got an actor doing my knee replacement surgery.

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