The Clink

On 12^th November an intrepid band of club members went to prison. The purpose of our trip was to visit The Clink, a Restaurant situated within HMP High Down, a Category B prison near Sutton. The Restaurant takes its name from the original Clink prison, a medieval prison situated in Southwark,  after which all prisons are nicknamed. We had booked for lunch, which was to be cooked and served by inmates of the prison. It was to be a very new experience for us, as none of us had ever been ‘behind bars’ before, and we didn’t know what to expect. I had often seen scenes  of prison food being served in movies and on TV and I hoped our experience would be better than that.

The Clink is a charity, whose aim is to give prisoners, due to leave within 18 months, a vocational education aimed at improving their chances of finding employment on the outside.  The work of the charity helps offenders break the cycle of reoffending, by nurturing self-belief, work place skills and nationally recognised City & Guilds qualifications. Statistics demonstrate the startling success of the scheme. Normally 47% of all adult ex-offenders will reoffend within the first year of release.  However, of those who complete the Clink’s training programme, the reoffending rate is just 12.5% in the first year.

Site of the original Clink prison

Booking for the Restaurant was slightly daunting, as they wanted to know our full names and dates of birth before they would even accept our booking.  We had to bring photo identification with us (passport or new-style driving licence) and the names on this identification had to exactly match the names we had already provided. Additionally, in view of the size of our party, we had to pre-order our meal from the menu beforehand, which would obviously save time when we arrived.

The 12 of us travelled there in 3 cars, a fairly uneventful journey, apart from Janet failing to find the central seatbelt in the back of our Renault, so she shared Norma’s seatbelt, an activity which was probably not strictly legal. I never like to break the law when driving, and my anxiety was increased in view of the fact we were driving to a prison.

My car

We were told to arrive 30 minutes early so we could go through security procedures.  We arrived at a Reception area outside the actual prison, where after a bit of a wait we each had our photograph and  fingerprints taken. The warder told me, slightly accusingly I thought, that I had a ‘weak’ fingerprint.  I didn’t really know what she meant by that, but I assured her I had not tampered with my fingers in any way.

Not my finger

There was a very long list of things we couldn’t take into the prison with us, including cameras, mobile phones, nail files, aerosols, drugs and unsurprisingly, explosives.  Also, we were not allowed to carry more than £50 in cash. The Restaurant would only take payment in the form of a cheque for our lunch. Lockers were provided for visitors to place any of these forbidden items before we were escorted into the prison itself.

From the Reception area it was about a 200 yard walk to the prison gates. Warders carrying large bunches of keys opened a series of security doors one by one and took us through.  We walked along some corridors and through an enclosed compound, but slightly disappointingly, we didn’t actually see any prisoners here.  I could, however hear a lot of raised voices nearby, which sounded to me as if there was a football match going on. As we walked through the compound, surrounded by 20 foot high fences topped with razor wire, it dawned on us that we were really inside a prison.   Quote of the day came from Norma, who said that it reminded her of boarding school!

High Down prison entrance

Through one of the fences I could see a well tended vegetable growing area, which I presumed supplied the restaurant. I heard that HMP in Send, which is near Woking has a fully functioning kitchen garden, which supplies not only vegetables to the Clink, but also poultry. As we went through one door, there was a sign on it, indicating the State of Alert, which was given as ‘Heightened’. I chose not to ask what that meant. It was a surprise, having walked through such austere, forbidding areas, to arrive in the Restaurant, which was very smart indeed, with subdued lighting, and staffed by attentive and friendly waiters.

The Clink Restaurant

As we took our seats, the first thing we noticed was that all cutlery was plastic, and that no alcohol was served. We were offered fruit  ‘mocktails’ which were actually quite delicious. The water came in glass bottles and the drinks were served in glasses, which seemed rather incongruous, given the plastic cutlery. I had expected to feel a little intimidated when I met the inmates, but actually, they didn’t look or act any different to young men one would find working in any good quality Restaurant. They were very well trained, wearing smart uniforms, and seemed genuinely concerned that we enjoyed our visit.

The food we were served was superbly cooked and presented, and would not disgrace any top Restaurant. I am not exaggerating when I say that the roast breast of chicken I ordered was quite the best I had tasted in a long time. We had a very convivial time, but it was nevertheless a sobering thought that we were in effect  locked in a prison. One or two of us expressed some discomfort about the loss of our own liberty whilst temporarily confined within prison walls. The difference was that at the end of our meal we would  be escorted out of the prison, whereas the staff we met would be staying there for weeks, possibly months before they were allowed to leave.

Beautifully presented food

The Clink had a gift shop, and some of us purchased a memento of our visit before we left.  When it came to paying our bill, the Restaurant Manager happily accepted my cheque for the balance, even though I had no means of guaranteeing it. I suppose I would be easy to trace if I defaulted, given they had my passport details, my photo and fingerprints. We were not, however,  allowed  to leave any tip for the waiting staff, as it was not expected, and may cause problems, we were told.

Souvenir

As we retraced our steps back to the outside, we reflected on what an enjoyable time we had had. We were also  happy to have helped in a small way with the rehabilitation of these offenders, by supporting the Charity which has provided them with the means to find employment when they leave.

Outside the prison walls - before camera was confiscated

City of London Walk

On Saturday 17^th October a group of explorers from the Rotary Club went on a guided tour of the City of London, led by our own Pauline Hedges. Pauline had a long career in the finance sector, and for much of the time she was based in the Square Mile, as a result of which she has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the City and its’ institutions.

City of London

We started out at Shepperton Station, which is about a 50 minute journey from Waterloo. On it’s way to London the train passes through 17 stations – and stops at every one! If only a few of them could be missed out, the journey would be so much more enjoyable, and of course quicker. I have always enjoyed train travel (apart from my commuting days) and I always get a thrill when we go charging through a station without stopping. Unfortunately that wasn’t going to happen today.

Shepperton Station

I thought it would be a good idea to take advantage of the Group Discounts available for rail travel these days. Having done a deal of  research, I came to the view that discounts could be significant, with the greater the number of travellers, the greater the discount. My plan turned out to be more complicated than I expected. The thing about Group Travel Discounts is that the whole group has to travel there and back together. With our group, some planned to stay in London for lunch, and others would come straight home. Some had other plans in London after our tour. To further complicate things, some were in possession of Senior Rail cards, which entitled them to discounts anyway. In the end, just 6 of us bought a Group Travel card, and the other 11 made their own arrangements.  Does anyone else find that organising the simplest  trip can be unexpectedly troublesome?

Our train arrived on time, and amazingly, so did our 17 travellers, and off we went to Waterloo.  The IPDG and I were greeted there by the very same man who assisted us on our last trip to Waterloo, about 6 months ago. He was an extraordinarily helpful and cheerful Irishman called Rod, who reckons that he is British Rail’s oldest employee, having worked at Waterloo for 59 years.  It must be his job to help wheelchair users with ramps. Incidentally, he directed the IPDG to an accessible toilet behind the station which was free, rather than the 30p charge elsewhere in the station.

Oldest employee? He's fitter than most and very helpful

From Waterloo, most of our party continued their journey on the Waterloo-City line, but in the absence of lifts down to the Underground station, 4 of us went by taxi. In doing this, I made an amazing discovery, many London cabs have  foldaway wheelchair ramps. London is becoming increasingly wheelchair friendly, with nearly all buses, and now also black cabs being accessible.

                                                  Black cab with ramp

It wasn’t long before we all met up again at the RoyalExchange, across the road from the Bank of England. The Royal Exchange was founded as a Centre of Banking and Commerce in the 16^th Century. Outside it is a bronze statue of the Duke of Wellington, cast from enemy cannons captured during Wellington's many foreign campaigns.

                                                        Outside the Royal Exchange (Pauline looking pretty in pink)

Pauline quickly got into her stride, explaining the history of the various buildings around us, and interesting facts about them, including something I had never noticed before, which was that the Bank of England has no ground floor windows. I think she said it was a security feature. The tour continued up Cornhill, so named because it was actually a hill, which once comprised cornfields.

                                          Risque statues adorn the Bank of England

From Cornhill we explored some remarkable alleyways where we saw ancient buildings and churches, such as St Michaels in Cornhill, which was rebuilt by Sir Christopher Wren in the 17^th Century after the original was destroyed in the Great Fire of London.  Before long, we arrived at the beautifully preserved Leadenhall market. This is a beautifully preserved Victorian Market, with high ornate glass ceilings. It has been tastefully transformed into a modern retail centre. Within the Leadenhall arcade we passed a charity stall selling home made cakes very cheaply, and I couldn’t resist some bread pudding. I have always been a great lover of this particular tray-baked cake, although no-one makes it as well as my mum used to.

                                                          St Michaels in Cornhill

Leadenhall Market

We headed onwards along some very quiet and ancient alleyways, found in abundance in the City, and passed many historical sites as we headed towards the Monument. This building commemorates the Fire of London in 1666, and was my favourite site in London as a small boy. I can remember  that on a couple of occasions I came to London with 4 school friends. We were no more than 8 or 9 years old, but we got ourselves Red Rover tickets (these cost 5 shillings and gave you unlimited travel on red London buses for a day) and found our way from our homes in Staines to the City where the highlight of our day was to climb the 345 stairs of the Monument and enjoy the view from the top. Somehow I don’t think today’s kids would be allowed to have an adventure like that.

The Monument

Words of wisdom from Pauline

Pauline was a fount of information. Throughout our walk, she told us about the history of the area, including many humorous  stories and anecdotes, many from her own experience, about the places we saw. I was particularly fascinated by the George & Vulture, a  400 year old pub which featured in one of my favourite  Dickens books, The Pickwick Papers . Continuing the Dickens theme, we also visited London’s only raised churchyard  (I can’t remember its name) which featured in another Dickens novel (I can’t remember which).

Dickensian pub

Another City pub....

.....And another

We didn’t only admire ancient buildings. There were many modern gems to admire, including the  Shard, the Cheese Grater, the Gherkin and the Walkie Talkie. It’s funny how I know the nicknames to these buildings, but not their real purpose. The juxtaposition of modern architecture alongside ancient buildings was remarkable, one of the most striking examples was seeing the ultra modern Lloyds building alongside the beautiful arcades of Leadenhall Market.

                                                                                                The Shard

As we neared the end of our tour we walked  along Lombard Street, in the heart of the Banking area. Once upon a time this street was home to the Head Offices of many of our largest banks, (including my former employers Barclays at no. 54)  although many of them have now moved elsewhere. Pauline herself was based at No 10 Lombard Street for many years, and as she modestly says there was more than one influential woman living at No 10 during the 1980s.

The Grasshopper - Symbol of Martins Bank in Lombard Street

The guided walk was an unqualified success, and we greatly appreciated Pauline sharing some of her extensive knowledge of London with us in such an entertaining way. I have visited the City of London many times over the years, but Pauline took us to places I had never seen before. A number of us thought we would stay in the City for lunch, but discovered that at weekends nearly all cafes, restaurants and pubs in the Square Mile are closed. So we made our way back to Waterloo, and strolled down to the South Bank, where we rounded off an enjoyable visit with some traditional  London fare, in the form of a pizza.

South Bank 

Strawberry Hill House

As my recovery from the knee operation continued apace, I eased myself back into my Consort duties. A new Rotary year had commenced on July 1^st, so was I still a Consort?   Well I decided that I was.  After all I was now President Elect of Shepperton Aurora Rotary Club, so I appointed myself official Consort to the President, Karen Sutton.  Not only that, but the person formerly known as District Governor was now Chair of Rotaract in Great Britain and Ireland, so I continued as her Consort. My blog will therefore continue,  although  I won’t be strutting the world stage any more, and my activities will be more parochial.

Token male - With my Presidential predecessors Karen, Pauline and Doreen

On 12^th September Norma Kent celebrated her birthday in an unusual fashion. It was unusual for a couple of reasons:  Firstly it wasn’t actually her birthday, and secondly she decided to treat Rotary Club members to coffee and biscuits at Strawberry Hill House, followed by a guided tour of the building.

Strawberry Hill House

Although most of us had never even heard of Strawberry Hill House before , around 18 of us took up the invitation and duly arrived at the House by a variety of different routes, such is the capricious nature of Sat Nav systems. I trusted my map-reading skills in preference to Sat Nav and took a direct route there via Twickenham, Richmond, Twickenham again and Teddington, and was by no means last to arrive. Norma was already there to greet us, and we enjoyed refreshments in the café whilst waiting for our tour to begin.

We meet our guide

Sculpture in the grounds

Strawberry Hill House was built by Horace Walpole, son of Prime Minister Robert Walpole, during the mid-Eighteenth Century. It is an extraordinary Gothic building, completely white in colour, with pinnacles, battlements and a round tower set in several acres of landscaped grounds.  Originally the house enjoyed good views to the River Thames, but the river can no longer be seen due to subsequent building activity and the planting of tall trees along the boundary.  Horace Walpole filled the house with an eclectic mix of treasures and antiquities (some were subsequently found to be not as old as he said) obtained during his two Grand Tours. Most of the treasures with which the house was originally filled were either sold off by subsequent owners, or are now in various museums. Some remain however, including some delightful coloured windows, whilst replicas of others have been made.

Our tour commences

An extraordinary library

Norma had organised an excellent guide, who really brought the history of the building to life with his encyclopaedic knowledge of its history, and interspersing his talk with amusing quotes from the writings of Walpole himself (he was a prolific letter writer). Apparently Walpole allowed visitors to view the house even during his own occupation of it. Strict rules were laid down for visitors (entry by ticket only, groups of no more than four, and no children), and if visitors were deemed to be important he would conduct the tour himself, otherwise his housekeeper Margaret would guide them. Walpole once wrote that Margaret was being paid so much for showing visitors around the property that he was ‘minded to marry her’.

Ornate ceiling

Detail from a window

It was a very enjoyable visit to a building that many of us didn’t even know existed before Norma invited us to see it. We were all very grateful to her for arranging this visit for us, and from a personal point of view I would certainly like to return for another look at Strawberry Hill House in the future.

Wounded knee part 4 - Recovery

I came home with 10 days supply of painkillers (2 types) and also an injection I had to perform myself into the stomach. This was an anti-coagulant drug. One of the biggest concerns following an operation like mine is getting embolisms, or blood clots, which can be serious and potentially fatal. The injections were intended to reduce this risk. I also had to wear anti-embolism socks (like flight socks) for 6 weeks after the operation.  On top of that I was given an exercise routine to do twice a day, which was designed to keep blood flowing through my leg, as well as improve flexibility in the knee and build thigh muscles. I had appointments for weekly visits to the hospital’s physiotherapy unit to monitor my progress.

On a day to day basis I was frustrated with my slow progress. When will the swelling go down, why can’t I bend my knee  more, when can I do my exercises without being in severe pain? But the reality was that I was improving quite rapidly. Within days I could walk quite comfortably on my crutches, I could ride in the car for short periods without too much trouble, and I could help the IPDG around the house and relieve her from her unfamiliar role of being my carer.

By day 3 at home, I was able to accompany the IPDG when taking Daisy for walks. Our first outing was to Fordbridge Park, which has a good tarmac footpath that she can use her electric wheelchair on. Here I managed to hobble on my crutches to the nearest bench, whilst I waited for  the IPDG to finish the walk. It was only a hundred yards there and back, but it was good to be outdoors and I felt a sense of achievement. The following day I walked to the second bench, about double the distance. My plan was to continue walking a little further every day.  By the end of the week, I was able to walk to the bench at Dumsey Meadow, which was about 200 yards each way across rough ground.

My knee on bench at Dumsey Meadow (note dressing removed)

There were a couple of problems looming on the horizon. Firstly I wasn’t sure what I should do when my 10 day supply of painkillers ran out.  I had become dependent on them, or at least the reassurance of being able to take them at bedtime and get through the night virtually pain-free.  The other problem looming was our annual two-week holiday in Scotland. We were due to go just 3 weeks after my operation and I wasn’t allowed to drive for 6 weeks. That meant the IPDG would have to drive the whole way there and back.

A phone call to my GP solved the first concern. He prescribed a 3 week supply of Cocodamol  which would follow on from the drugs given to me by the hospital. These drugs would see me through the holiday in Scotland. As to getting there, we only had one solution. We take so much stuff, including Daisy and electric wheelchair, that the car was the only option. The IPDG insisted that she could drive the whole 700 miles or so there and back on her own. Normally we would share the driving, in fact I tend to do the lion’s share. I was also worried about the journey on my own account. I could by now travel short distances in the car without too many problems, but the journey to the North of Scotland would take about 18 hours and I wasn’t sure I would cope.

The IPDG was determined that we should go, and when the day came I loaded the car up and off we went. It was about midday on Friday. We agreed that we would stop every hour so that I could stretch my legs for a few minutes before continuing. So it was that we made slow and stately progress northwards on the Motorway system, stopping regularly, sometimes for a snooze when the IPDG needed to.

Welcome sight - Motorway Service Station

When the IPDG and I travel long distances in the car, we have a tradition that the driver selects the in-car entertainment. When I’m driving it is a good opportunity to get out my Status Quo and Creedence Clearwater Revival tapes, but when the IPDG takes over we have story tapes. Obviously on this trip it was story tapes all the way. I don’t get on very well with them, as my attention wanders, and I miss vital parts of the story, so I will then annoy the IPDG by asking questions such as Who’s that speaking? Who’s been murdered? Is he the husband of so-and-so? As you can imagine this sometimes drives the IPDG to distraction. I coped quite well for the first part of the trip, as we had a CD of short stories by Jeffrey Archer, each one no more than 20 minutes long, and I was able to follow what was going on quite easily.

The driver did exceptionally well, and we were pulling up at her sister Sharon’s house in Portmahomack  about mid-morning on Saturday. Our self-catering accommodation was just down the road, and Tony helped me unload the car when we got there.

Portmahomack

It was the most sedentary fortnight I had ever spent in Scotland. Normally I am playing golf every day, climbing hills and walking Daisy on the beach. Not this year. I spent most of the time with my right leg up, as prescribed by the doctor, although I did embark on a few walks, following my plan to go a little further every day. By the end of the fortnight, I was walking on just one crutch most of the time and able to walk for about a mile, including along the very rough track at Tarbat Ness.

                                                 Tarbat Ness - and Daisy

My recovery continued apace, and within a week of arriving home, I was walking without any aids. I also came off the paikillers completely. By the end of my four week programme of physiotherapy, I was able to bend my knee 120 degrees, which delighted the physios. In October I played golf for the first time since the operation, and although I still walk with a slight limp, I often forget that I have a new knee joint. I cannot praise the NHS enough for the professionalism they showed throughout my time in their care, and one of my motivational factors is that I am determined that all their hard work on me isn’t wasted.

Wounded Knee Part 3 - Hospital Life

Following the operation, my stay in Ashford Hospital continued, and I maintained my diary...

6.00 a.m. Tuesday.  Surprisingly, I had slept reasonably well. The bed was comfortable and I was in very little pain (I don’t think the anaesthetic had fully worn off yet).  The night, however, was a bit disturbed, as John is a bit of a wanderer. Very confused, he was constantly trying to leave and go home, whilst the long-suffering nurse tried to fetch him back. He wasn’t being aggressive, but very argumentative and consequently rather disruptive. At one point he tried to climb out of the window by my bed, until I reminded him we were on the second floor.

As the morning progressed, I became concerned that I hadn’t passed water for 24 hours, and the nurses were keen that I did so. Feeling a bit dehydrated, I asked for a jug of water. The nurse drew my curtains round, and sat me on the side of the bed with a bottle to pee into. Still no success, although the nurse said it was quite common after a ‘spinal’. I resolved to drink lots more water. She took a blood test, I’m not sure why.

10.30 a.m. the physiotherapist came and put me through my paces in stretching and bending the new knee. I used a walking frame (taking with me the saline drip trolley and knee drain) for the short walk to the toilet (still nothing doing). The physio said she would try me on crutches in the afternoon. In the meantime I sat up in my chair in day clothes (shorts and T shirt). The physio told me to keep on doing the knee bending and stretching exercises at intervals during the day. The more I do now, she said, the more flexibility I will eventually have in the new knee.

Poor Terry was having problems, as his leg remains terribly swollen, which restricts his opportunities to exercise. He has been in hospital for 6 days now, and is getting fed up.

3.10 p.m.  I finally emptied my bladder, shouting ‘Eureka!’ as I came out of the toilet, to general applause. It had taken 24 hours for the epidural to wear off. Somebody came to collect me for an X-ray but couldn’t move me because of the blood drain still attached to my knee.

                                                   My knee with drain attached

3.30 p.m. It was nice to get a visit from Ken Howe, who had bought me several bars of chocolate and brought me up to date with Rotary gossip. I also had another  visit from the physio, who wanted to try me on crutches but couldn’t, because of my blood drain getting in the way. Altogether, I reckon I've lost a pint and a half of blood from the wound so far.

4.40 p.m. A nurse came and removed the drain from my knee and took me off the saline drip. However,  the  cannula remained in my wrist until they knew the result of this morning’s blood test.

Cannula in hand. Body double used here in case you were wondering...

8.00 p.m. John went home. He was given the go-ahead about 5 p.m. after his wife had made a bit of a fuss, then they had a long wait whilst medication was sorted out and a porter was organised to push John out in a wheelchair. For my part, I was having increasing trouble with pain. The spinal had  fully worn off, and now I was suffering. We had been told to ask for pain killers at the first sign of any pain as it is easier to manage at this point. I may have left it a bit late. The knee exercises, which were relatively pain free this morning, were now excruciating, and I seemed to have less movement in my knee than I had in the morning.

10 p.m. I was in constant pain at bed time, and the painkillers didn’t seem to be having any effect. I noticed  that Terry had been ‘using’ morphine during the day and I asked the nurse if I could have some. She gave me what she said was a full dose (normally they like to give you a half dose). Within 10 minutes I was fast asleep and didn’t wake up until 6 a.m. I understand now how people can get addicted to the stuff. When I woke I asked for more morphine in addition to painkiller tablets in an attempt to avoid pain happening rather than trying to deal with it after it occurs.

9.30 a.m. Wednesday. This is day 3 and the day I had been hoping to go home, but right now I feel  a long way from being able to cope at home.  I had a visit from the physio who once again got me bending and stretching the knee. I didn’t think I did as well as I had yesterday, but she seemed happy, blaming my reduced movement on increased swelling around the knee. She also brought me a pair of crutches and took me for a walk around the ward and down the corridor. I even went up and down a flight of stairs successfully. This is the test, I discovered, which determines whether a patient is fit to go home and consequently she was confident I would be leaving today.

10.15 a.m. I was taken for an X-Ray on the knee. A porter pushed me, in my bed, all the way there and back, even though I protested that I could manage on crutches. I was given to believe that  if the X-Ray proved satisfactory, I would be going home today. Incidentally, I still had a cannula attached to my wrist, even though yesterday’s blood tests were OK.  I spoke to a nurse about leaving today, as it’s looking increasingly likely that I will, but nobody has actually told me so yet.  I told her that my main fear about going home is pain management, because in hospital it is easy to ask for more painkillers, or morphine if pain is bad, but at home I can’t do that. She reassured me that I would be prescribed strong painkillers, although not morphine, which would deal with any pain.

                                                            X-Ray machine

10.30 There was a new arrival in the ward, Dave, who was occupying the bed previously belonging to John. Like me, he is in for a replacement knee. He is familiar with the hospital and its’ routines, having previously had both hips replaced. I assured him that knee surgery was much more painful than hips.

Replacement hip

2.00 p.m. Lunch had been and gone but still no official word about my departure. Terry was getting very restless.  He was determined to leave today although the physios were not happy with the flexibility in his leg, which remains very swollen. His argument was that if they gave him anti-inflammatories to take home he could manage fine. The physio said she would speak to the surgeon, who wouldn’t be available until 4.00 p.m. He reluctantly agreed to wait until then but pointed out that he was going home anyway.

3.00 p.m. Alfie, one of the male nurses, came to remove my bandages and change my dressing.  He  confirmed that I would be leaving today. They were just putting together my pack of medication.

                                                                              My knee with bandages removed

3.10 p.m. Dave went in for his operation. I wished him well and told him I may not be here when he gets back to the ward. I had a final visit from the physio. My knee can bend to a 90 degree angle, and  she said this was good after only two days.

4.30 p.m. Physio couldn’t get hold of Terry’s surgeon, so Terry decided to discharge himself, against the recommendation of all hospital staff. The problem with doing that is, if he later has a complaint to make about his treatment, he won’t have a leg to stand on (literally). I think he just got frustrated that all his fellow patients were going home in 3 days, and he was still there after 6 days.

6.15 p.m. I finally get the all clear, and am given a large bag full of medication. I asked if someone could help me carry my holdall and the bag of drugs downstairs, and a porter, with wheelchair, came to take me down.  I was very uncomfortable in the wheelchair because getting my feet onto the footplates meant bending my knee to a painful degree. When we got to the entrance I asked him to drop me off at a bench outside where I would wait for the IPDG to fetch me.

When the IPDG arrived, a tragi-comedy ensued. She parked alongside the pavement, about 5 yards from where I was sitting. I got up on my crutches, but couldn’t also carry the two bags, as they unbalanced me, so I hobbled over and after 5 minutes groaning managed to get into the car, leaving the IPDG to fetch the bags. She got out on her crutches, but couldn’t pick up the two bags either, however she did manage to kick them towards the kerb. Getting back into the car, she manoeuvred it alongside the bags, and I was able to lean out and haul them into the car using my crutches. If anyone had been watching, it must have been an entertaining spectacle.

The sort of car I should have been picked up in.

Our first call was to Tesco’s, just across the road from the hospital. Some of the drugs I needed weren’t supplied by the hospital, so they gave me a prescription to take to Tesco’s pharmacy. The one minute drive to Tesco’s car park was agony for me, as my knee was bent at a terribly painful angle, and I became aware that I had taken all the painkillers I was allowed. What I would have given for a dose of morphine at that point! I decided to get out of the car with the IPDG and hobble into the supermarket on my crutches, on the basis that it would be the lesser of two evils. However, the walk to the pharmacy counter (no more than 100 yards) was terribly painful, and the IPDG sent me back to the car, where I perched with my legs outside, until the IPDG returned with my drugs.

                                                     Tesco Ashford

Interestingly, I attracted the attention of people both going in and coming out of Tesco’s who noticed my plight and wanted to talk to me about their own knee operations. In fact, during the weeks since the operation, I have had dozens of conversations with complete strangers, who wanted to share their own experiences. Others wanted to know what the operation was like as they were thinking about having it done. I seem to have become introduced to a new fraternity, which I call the RKF (Replacement knee fellowship).

Eventually the IPDG got back to the car loaded with drugs, and we set off home. The drive home from Ashford Hospital is relatively short, but it must have been the longest 15 minutes of my life. It is difficult to describe what it’s like to be forced to bend your knee beyond what is comfortable just to get into the car, and remain that way for 15 minutes. The IPDG said I looked grey, and I’m not surprised, I don’t think I have ever suffered such pain before. When  we got home I went straight to bed where I finally found some relief, being able to lie on my back with my legs stretched out in front of me. I couldn’t turn over, either left or right, but I wasn’t bothered.  I was comfortable at last.