So I finally got the truth. To achieve this I had to hold down my charmingly Northern (first in my new Oxymoron of the Week series) physiotherapist Aileen and threaten to punch her lights out. Metaphorically speaking. Even able-bodied, I'm not one for the punching and such are the knock on effects of my tip-tapping on the door of the big red van that I can barely punch dots, let alone trim and toned healthcare professionals from Donegal. But metaphorically I hurled her to the floor, and with my eyes I threatened a good beating should she continue her withholding ways and thus eventually the truth it did emerge. Six more weeks. At least. Before I get near normal. And I'm back to work on Tuesday agonizing pain or no agonising pain.
So the upshot is I wish I had cancer. Sweet sympathy giving cancer. Don't get me wrong, having an injury which most commonly occurs in conjunction with fatal chest trauma has been great too. Lots of lying around, a good dent made in Red Dead Redemption, and I even read almost all of a book! But I was up and making one-armed dinners within ten days and truth be told, people didn't really seem to appreciate just how badly I had fucked myself up. If you say you have cancer, even in a text message, you can feel people's awed sympathy hurtling back through the air before they can type so much as 'I'm going to start believing in god again just so you can be in my prayers'. Say 'I have a compound fracture of the scapula' and they're all 'LOL! That's like, in your toes, right?' Combine this staggering anatomical ignorance with the not unfounded assumption that it was all my fault and you have a sumptuous Nigel Slater recipe for who gives a fuck.
Cancer, though. All the good shit comes with cancer. Effortless weight loss. A lot more than six weeks off work should you want it. Hero status beyond even that of Floppy should you prefer to keep busy. That hushed sympathy heroin I mentioned before. Carte blanche to cheat your way to seven Tour wins, fuck up an economy with a best mate banker bail out, do pretty much anything you want. And most importantly of all, it's not your fault. Even if you're a fifty a day sunbed Sally, absolution is yours. Because it's cancer, because you're going to die. Well, we're all going to fucking die. Thank fuck. So the sooner I catch me some Big C and start absorbing those rays of sympathy and forgiveness the better. Karma being what it is, I can probably expect a diagnosis at my next session with Aileen.