PLASTERED!

Sub-titled: What not to do if you're a writer!


A few weeks ago I bought a pair of sandals, and I haven't worn them yet because I need to build up the right-hand sole.
This is because when I had my left hip replaced nine years ago, the surgeon made my leg longer.
My Spanish was minimal at the time, although I had worked hard to learn such words as "ouch" and "bedpan" while I was on the waiting list. Even so, sitting up in bed the morning after the op and seeing my left knee further away than it should be, I demanded to see the surgeon.
It's amazing how much Foreign you can speak when you're angry. I asked him how he had managed to get it so badly wrong - after all, he had the other leg right beside it to match it up.
The arrogant bugger said, "Don't worry, you can build up the other shoe and we'll level them off when you have the other hip done." Un-f**king-believable!
Especially as the specialist I saw last year said I could manage without another operation - their waiting lists are huge and funds are low, and I'm not actually walking with a stick again - yet.
Well, the local cobbler charges 10 euros per shoe, and I'm a bit broke till pension day, and I wanted to wear them this weekend. So I set out to do it myself, not for the first time.
Piece of thick leather in one hand, VERY sharp knife in the other. As I started I thought, "I should be doing this on the terrace table".
I should have listened to myself. I bleed like a stuck pig from the tiniest wound, so by the time I had opened the first aid box and cut a strip of plaster, the bathroom looked like a crime scene.
And typing without mistakes is imp[[ossibbblke.