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Mrs. Monk's Would-be Diary should have been written by Mrs. Monk, since she is the "Writer" in the family.
However, since she is a writer only in the conceptual sense, I have undertaken to fill these pages on her behalf
If not by her, these pages will certainly be about her, and other important matters of the day         Leslie Monk




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by  Monkles 12 August 2012


At a certain age we are expected to visit the nurse provided by the NHS and have ourselves checked out for medical well-being.

Yesterday morning I discovered at the medical centre that I am "normal" in every respect. I hate "normal" but in that context it was welcome news. My ECG was "beautiful" said the nurse. I'm beautiful and normal. Could it get any better?

Mrs Monk decided we should celebrate my unexpected good shape and have lunch out. We got as far as the car when I did something to my back as I got into the driving seat. I struggled to get out of the car and then found myself completely  debilitated and unable to move leaning forward propped against the car half standing half crouching in the middle of the road.

However, Mrs Monk was convinced that I was faking it and simply trying to get out of taking her to lunch. She decided that I could not stand in the middle of the road and took things into her own hands. She decided to "help" me move even though I knew that was impossible. She began by slamming the car door on my hand. My cry of pain was heard by a number of neighbours. The hand that was supporting me and the awful pain in my back was now slammed shut in the car door.

It did not occur to me that a car door was designed not to harm a hand that was so trapped in it. apart from a few bruises, but that did not resolve the issue of my back.

A neighbour who happened to be a retired nurse took charge of the situation. She knew that I alone had to decide what I could and could not move and she also directed traffic that was prevented by me from passing.

After 30 minutes  in that position it was clear that there was little hope of recovery and the neighbour decided that we had to call for an ambulance. Paracetamol was administered in the road and the wait began for the medics to arrive.

A further 45 Minutes later we gave up on the medics who failed to arrive.  The pain killers had kicked in and I was able to hobble home. From there Mrs Monk drove me back to the same medical centre from where I had joyously hopped skipped and jumped that very morning.

The neighbour had speculated about a disc slip, but My GP decided that this was unlikely. Anti Inflammatory was prescribed.

Now I am totally reliant on Mrs Monk to do just about everything and we are learning fast how to cope. I have worked out which chair not to sit in because of the subsequent challenge of getting out of it. Some tasks I prefer to do myself; the  raising of the trousers has proven to be the most challenging and I have worked out a system that Wallace and Gromit would be proud of.

Mrs Monk just read out a news story about a man who got his hand stuck in a tea pot, called 999, and successfully secured the services of an emergency medic.

I would like to meet that man.

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