Driving

Yesterday I had my second appointment at the Orthopaedics Clinic, and at this point, two weeks after the accident, the break is apparently healing well. The physiotherapist is surprised at the range of movement I’ve managed to maintain in my right arm, and predicts that my recovery should be comparatively swift.


I welcomed this news, although not for the reasons you might imagine. There’s something about going to the doctor that brings out the geeky teacher’s pet in me. I didn’t actually stick my tongue out at the other patients and announce, “Doctor says I’m the best at healing in the whole clinic, so there!”, but I know that somewhere deep within me my inner eight year old was doing precisely that.


I celebrated by going for a drive in the evening, giving the car its first run in over a fortnight. It was doable, but not really advisable. You don’t realise how much you need your whole body to drive until some part of it hurts. Little things like closing the door, turning the key or winding down the window require a surprising amount of force… at least in a thirteen year old Volkswagen Golf. If I had the latest model, it’d probably have keyless ignition, electric windows and power steering, and be so easy to drive that a person could still tootle around in it three months after they died.