All Systems Go

After waiting twenty four hours for a response from estate agent Keith to our revised offer on the property in Framlingham we were beginning to think that he had forgotten about us. But about five minutes before The Muppets (our Orange Wednesday film choice for this week) was due to start, my phone went. I left Marion in the ticket queue and took the call. It was Keith and. although the vendors had turned down our offer, they made a counter offer that, despite being over our ideal price, was just a couple of thousand pounds over so we were getting closer to agreement. By now Marion had the tickets so we had a quick chat and decided to accept the vendors' price - and pare back a little on the planned improvements. We went straight into the film and, although it was probably a great movie, it was difficult to concentrate having just made our biggest commitment in over twenty years. Maybe we'll watch it again one day on TV and enjoy it more.

I did enjoy the little Toy Story vignette that preceded The Muppets and I thought Jason Segel and the Muppet movie soundtrack were brilliant. It was a little strange going to see this without any children. It was lovely to see how much the kids in the audience loved the film and I can't wait to be able to take our grandchildren to the cinema with us in the future.

There's been a lot in the news about hip replacements this week. It seems that there are some 50,000 people with potentially health damaging metal hips that are leaching toxic metals into their bloodstream.  So, when I got a phone call out of the blue on Monday from a young man at the hip surgeon's appointments department, alarm bells started ringing. It seemed that they had a cancellation and would like me to come in for a check. This was strange as I was given a full discharge in August. But I knew that I had a plastic hip and didn't understand what was behind the call. I was sent for X-Rays. The consultant looked at them for all of thirty seconds and discharged me again. The reason behind the appointment remains a mystery and I just wonder if they are double checking to ensure that patients have indeed been fitted with plastic rather than metal replacement hips. After having the doctor's finger up my backside checking my prostrate two weeks ago, February was a strange month on the medical front.

My Power of Attorney over Flo's finances finally arrived today. It took over three months. I am very pleased with Marion's skill in completing the forms correctly. This saved Flo a fair sum in solicitor's fees. I do urge anybody with an elderly or mentally infirm relative to take steps to get such a power before it is too late as, once the relative is incapable of understanding the forms, getting one will take a lot longer than three months. It is especially important now as we have received an offer on Flo's flat and we can go about selling it for her without any legal complications.   

NHS Hip Replacement - The Acid Test

It's almost exactly three months since I was discharged from hospital with my shiny new hip and every week my leg has felt a little bit stronger and my limp has become a little less pronounced. So, as we are in the Lake District - the walkers' paradise, we felt that it was time to put it to a real test and go for a walk in the country.

So here we were at Derwent Water, before the early morning mist had fully cleared, ready to take the launch to the other end of the lake and walk back. The weather smiled kindly on us and by eleven o'clock we had disembarked at Lodor and were heading into the the lakeland wilderness - well, not quite, as, at five past eleven we came upon the Lodor Falls Hotel which proclaimed that ramblers were welcome (providing that boots were left at the door) and five minutes later we were sitting by a roaring fire in our stockinged feet sipping coffee and sampling their home made biscuits - this rambling is thirsty work I'll have you know.

The sun shone, the sky was blue and it was a perfect day to take the hip for a test run. The walk is not exactly strenuous. It carves a scar wide enough for four people across the landscape and even today in early March there was a fair amount of mostly retiree traffic ambling along it's length.We imagine that at weekends and in the summer it will be jam packed with walkers but today there were few enough for us to sometimes wander lonely as the metaphorical cloud.

I took a few shots along the way using the iPhone and I have to say that I am very impressed with the quality for a phone.

The lake was millpond calm throughout the day and we arrived back in Keswick by 3.15 after another brief stop in a cafe for a pot of tea. Although I was fairly tired after the walk, which was, I believe, about six miles, the hip stood up to the test and I got back to the car without any pain. 

The sky was darkening a little by then but the rain held off making it a pretty perfect day. I even found time for a bit of metal detecting when we got back to the cottage and I found this. No idea what it is. I doubt that it is particularly old but answers on a postcard please (or just email me if you like).

The Adjustment Bureau - Neither Bourne Nor Inception

Billed on the posters as "Bourne Meets Inception", Matt Damon's new release is more "It's  A Wonderful Life" meets "Sleepless In Seattle". With none of the thrills of the Bourne franchise and far inferior special effects to Inception's I feel that the comparison is a weak one dreamed up by the marketing department on the facts that it stars Damon and has a bit of supernatural CGI in it. It's an amiable enough love story about a couple whose romance is thwarted by a mysterious group of men in smart 1950's  suits and trilby hats who do their very best to keep them apart. It seems that Emily Blunt is destined to become a world class dancer due to her ability to do an odd quivery thing with her calves but if young politician Damon gets romantically involved with her she's going to end up in a dead end job. The men in suits do their best to keep the star crossed couple away from each other but you can't change fate. Or can you? On the positive side there are some great shots of New York but the acting is wooden and the film fails to be either thriller or romcom.

We are getting to the state where everyone is afraid of his or her own shadow. I had a letter on Saturday advising me that a questionnaire that I completed prior to my recent hip replacement has probably been lost. It’s not a big deal. OK so it had a few of my personal details on it but none that couldn't have been found by an amateur detective with an internet connection and half an hour to spare. But from the tone of the letter you would have thought that the lost paperwork was so disastrous that the writer was about to leap from a tall building and life was no longer worth living. The groveling, apologetic letter closed with a helpline for me to call if I needed help with my "distress". Bloody hell. They lost a questionnaire; they didn't replace the wrong hip. Now I don't know about you but I think it would take more than a lost health questionnaire to cause me such distress. And by writing in such a serious tone they will probably lead other recipients of the letter to smell the scent of compensation in the air. Better get down to the solicitors, I feel a lost questionnaire induced breakdown coming on.

Great to see Dirk Kuyt score a hat trick against United yesterday. I ended up staying at home as I just couldn't stand the prospect of standing up and putting my new hip under pressure for the whole match - and it was clear from the TV that the Kop stood for the whole game so my decision was the right one. I like Kuyt. He's not the world's greatest footballer but he always gives his all and the amount of work he and his wife do for disadvantaged children sets him apart from the flashy image of the typical Premier League footballer. One thing that I didn't like in the match was that x-rated tackle by Jamie Carragher. How he stayed on the pitch after that is beyond me. It seems that referees are hell bent on creating controversy every week at the moment.

I'm off into the countryside today with my metal detector. I promised my brother that I would go with him as soon as the hip was 100% but he's off to Spain tomorrow for a while so I'll make do with 90%. As always I've spent hours researching potential sites to search using Ordnance Survey maps and the Internet but no doubt when we arrive we'll find that the farmers refuse us permission and it will be back to the same places that we've been for the last twenty years and we'll end up with nothing more than muddy clothes, aching backs and a couple of ring pulls. Ah well, it beats work.

No, Sarah's baby has not arrived early. We went to visit an old employee Nat the other day as she has some baby things to sell. Here is Marion with Nat's youngest daughter Isabella. She's a lovely bright little thing - and the baby's nice too. You can see that Marion is going to be a natural granny. And it won't be long now before she is.


And maybe then we can look forward to times like this. Hilarious.

On Naked Thighs

Apologies for luring you here under the dubious pretence of a salacious headline but, now that you've arrived, you might as well read on. It'll only waste a couple of minutes.


When I went into hospital six weeks ago yesterday for my replacement hip, I consoled myself with the thought that it would at least give me the material for plenty of blogs as I recorded my experience and subsequent convalescence. But today, just forty three days on, it's a case of move along now, nothing else to see. The crutches now lie abjectly unwanted in the corner and the giant loo seat and hospital armchair are cleaned up and awaiting a new home. I've managed eighty minutes on an exercise bike at the gym in the past twenty four hours and Marion told me to slow down when walking with her this morning. OK my hopalong gait still leaves a lot to be desired but as the bad leg strengthens I'm hoping that the limp will subside and go the same way as the pain. So all I have to show for the experience now is the scarred bare thigh of the headline which is healing very nicely thank you.

I've been reading about Nick Clegg and his recent, frequent, references to the term "alarm clock Britain". He's using the phrase to represent those hard working types who struggle out of bed at six a.m to put in a day of toil. Sad to say Nick, we're still using an alarm clock and rising at just after seven and have no jobs to go to so I'm not sure that it's the smartest of metaphors. I did however treat myself to the new Gentle Alarm app for the iPhone. Instead of jumping out of our skin as Marion's mobile bursts into a rousing cha cha cha played at a million decibels and leaving us flailing about searching blindly for the culprit of this shock to our senses, we are now lulled awake with the gentlest of rings. It's like a baby's breath or a wave breaking on the shore. I've only had it for a couple of days and I've woken easily with this gentle intrusion into our sleep. The only problem is that the alarm is supposed to wake you gently for around twenty minutes before it starts to make a big noise so we've been waking up over a quarter of an hour before we wanted to. I believe that in the course of a few days it will learn my sleep pattern and change things so that we will wake at the set time. I'll wait and see.

Less than forty eight hours on it's old news now but no self respecting blogger won't have an opinion on Ricky Gervais and his performance as host of the Golden Globes and I'm no exception. So, for what it's worth, here's my comment. 


Nobody could say that the organisers were not warned. Gervais himself said that he would make sure that they wouldn't be inviting him back. But in reality we can assume that his material was what his paymasters asked for - after all, they heard him last year. He has divided opinion. For example the Times was critical but the Mail (strangely) supportive. Was it funny? In a cringe inducing way a lot of it was. Was there a need for it? I'm not sure. A world where caustic criticism is seen as perfectly acceptable humour depends upon thick skinned and willing victims who are prepared to accept the joke and laugh at themselves. Unless Ricky Gervais knows his subjects intimately, his witty barbs could easily have wounded and humiliated them and, however egotistical and seemingly deserving of ridicule, these people must have feelings. Would you have liked to be on the receiving end of the jokes? Thought not. I certainly wouldn't.


It is possible that the Golden Globe victims are all completely confident and rational people who enjoy humiliation (although I bet there are very few without their own shrinks) but where does this example put the factory foreman who jokes knowingly in front of all the staff about the fitter's sexuality? Hang on a minute. That's not acceptable. That's bullying. What if we start writing nasty things about people on Facebook or Twitter? It's been known to lead to suicide. In reality, in my opinion,Ricky Gervias bullied the celebrities who went for a glitzy night out - for our amusement and I, for one, feel uncomfortable with that. I witnessed it in the school playground. I didn't like it then and I don't like it now.

Here's something that did make me laugh. And if those who came for the headline are still with me, here's some real nudity for you.

So This Is What Retirement Is All About

So you are all back at work and catching up on the two hundred emails and big pile of post that arrived this morning. And while you do that Marion and I are finally starting to understand what it's like to be retired. "But you retired on 30th November" you may well say. Very true but, let's face it, going into hospital a couple of days later and the subsequent period of recuperation don't really count as normality.


With the leg well and truly on the mend I think it's fair to say that today is day one of the rest of our retired lives. And what a fascinating day it has turned out to be. I still have to complete the Guardian quick crossword (it's part of my OCD) but I no longer have any deadline as I don't have to grab my coat and rush out of the house at ten to nine. I can even take the crossword to the loo with me if I feel like it.


Crossword done, we have some stuff to take back to M&S and discover that the average age of everyone in Southport on a Tuesday morning is probably about twenty years higher than it is at weekend and the place is crawling with the grey haired and balding. But there's no queue to speak of at the returns desk and we get things done much faster than usual.


My hair could do with a trim. This usually involves several trips to the barbers where I pull up outside, count the number in the queue and drive away. I then repeat the exercise at half hourly intervals until I find a lull and triumphantly make my entrance to be seated immediately at the chair. Today I turn up at 11, there's no queue and I'm seen straight away.


Marion decides that she'll give the daytime classes at the gym a go and I gamely decide to accompany her and give my new hip a work out. You know what it's like at the gym at the start of the new year when everyone has made that resolution to invest £30 per month and actually turns up leaving a queue at every machine, compared to every other month when the money continues to go out of the account but the trackie and trainers stay in the wardrobe. Well it's not like that at noon and I've virtually got the place to myself and manage to exercise for half an hour.


I discover that there are toilets just outside the gym. It's not that I need them but it's the first time that I've had the time to look around the place and I had always assumed that the ones in the changing rooms were all there were. I wonder why people spit used chewing gum into the urinals. Do they have no spatial awareness and think that large blob of gum will somehow go down the small hole? Or does it give them something to aim at? Or do they think that after a certain number of pees the gum will shrink sufficiently to drain away? Or do they simply think that the cleaners enjoy removing the piss soaked globules? Oh yes we love removing your gum from the urinals - it makes our day and is so much more preferable to finding it in the lined waste paper basket positioned a foot away.


Yes it has certainly been an interesting day. We've discovered that we can do everything so much quicker just when we don't need to. Which means that retirement hours are probably worth two working hours. Which means that we're going to have so much time to do all that stuff that we've always wanted to do. An old bloke at the gym told me that it took just six weeks for him to feel fully recovered from his hip replacement. Which means that in two weeks time it should be all systems go.

NHS Hip Replacement - Four Week Progress Report

It's exactly for weeks ago today that I went under the surgeon's knife and had my decrepit and arthritic hip replaced with a super plastic, metal and ceramic combo and I thought I'd write a bit about it for the benefit of anyone thinking of undergoing this surgery who happens to hit upon this blog. (A statistical unlikelihood - but you never know).


The elephantine leg started to deflate after around two weeks. The reduction in the swelling started at the thigh and gradually worked its way down my leg until only my ankles remained puffy and swollen. After three weeks even those had returned to normal although they were still prone to swell up if I spent any time on my feet. The leg has felt stronger every day and I've started to sleep much better although it is a real pain that sleeping on my back is the only position allowed for another eight weeks.


I can walk (more of a hop, step and jump really) without crutches but the instructions say that I shouldn't, so I'm sticking to the rules for the time being and getting about with one crutch. We went up to see our daughter in St Andrews over the new year break and I managed to walk a mile or so on the crutches although I felt knackered at the end of it. 


This morning we did a big shop at Tesco and, again, I felt shattered when we got home but it was good to get the exercise. There is no longer any pain in the hip. After eighteen moths of agony, it is quite hard to come to terms with this and it's going to be very difficult to shake off the limp which feels permanently programmed into my brain. Marion has booked a session at the gym tomorrow so I am going to go along and do some light exercises to see if I can loosen up my leg muscles - tight thigh muscles (and a bloody big scar) are now the only real symptoms remaining. I reckon that in about two or three more weeks I will be almost back to normal.

I feel a little guilty that I've been living the life of Riley during my convalescence. I've been waited on hand and foot with a near constant supply of food and drink whenever I ask and I've indulged myself by sticking to my retirement resolution to read more books. These are what I have read since 6th December. Yesterday I finished Burley Cross Post Box Theft by Nicola Barker. My daughter Sarah bought it for me for Christmas and it's an original read. I'd liken it to an episode of Miranda on the telly - totally daft, silly, old fashioned and a bit naive but at the same time heart warming and, most importantly, pretty funny.

So the question is, what do I read next? Here is a selection that I've just taken down from Marion's bookshelves. They all look interesting - strange that two have "happiness" in the title but that might reflect my glass half full outlook on life. If any readers out there have any suggestions from this selection, please let me know.

One good thing about making progress with the hip is that we can finally enjoy another of our passions and get back to the cinema. What better than 127 hours, a film about a bloke doing a bit of DIY surgery. I reckon that I should be able to sit through it and , having got a load of VUE vouchers for Christmas from my mum, we might even take in a few more films in the next week with The King's Speech and the new Russell Crowe movie The Next Three Days all due out soon.


I'll close today with an interesting YouTube offering. An American dad filmed his kids coming down the stairs at Christmas every year for 25 years. a nice little film but if you scroll through the comments you'll wonder what's wrong with some people. Can we have and end to anonymity on the internet soon - please.

NHS Hip Replacement. Stitches Out

The District Nurse managed to brave the sub zero temperatures and ice rink of a road to arrive on time this morning and remove my stitches. There's something quite cathartic about this. It gives me a feeling of completion and, although my pain has been minimal for the last few days, my wound suddenly feels even less tight and more relaxed. The DN tells me that it should leave very little by way of a scar despite my thigh looking at the moment like a joint on a butcher's slab. All I need to do now is carry on with the exercises and getting as much practice at walking as possible.

Unfortunately that walking is going to be restricted to indoors. This is the heaviest snowfall we have seen since we moved here in 1989 and, as beautiful as it looks, it is creating a lot of headaches. There's so much snow on the roof that the gutters have pulled away and a few roof tiles seem to have dislodged. Poor Marion has dug the car out of the snow and taken it for a hair raising drive to the petrol station but the biggest worry is the Christmas plans. Our son Paul and his wife Josephine are due to drive up on Boxing day and we are booked into a very nice hotel in St Andrews on 29th to see daughter Sarah. Unless things improve rapidly both these rare chances to see the kids may be lost - very sad.

My reading blitz continues unabated. I've been getting through almost a novel a day since the operation but this latest offering Parrot and Olivier in America presented the biggest challenge so far and there was no way that I was going to get through this epic in 24 hours. Shortlisted for the 2010 Man Booker prize, Peter Carey's picaresque tale of an English servant and his French aristocratic master is a masterpiece of literary descriptions and I know that I should gush about it if I have a scrap of intellect within me but, whilst I can appreciate Carey's silver (nay golden) tongue, I can't say that I enjoyed the book like I did Like Bees To Honey and Started Early Took My Dog. I finished it in a little over two days and am pleased that I have read it but I can't say that it is particularly entertaining reading - more an opportunity to worship at the feet of a master wordsmith in the sure knowledge that I will never come close to writing anything of this magnitude.

If you know me or you've read my blogs before you'll know that I am fascinated by the latest technology. I stumbled across this the other day. It's a Thing O Matic by Maker Bot and is described as a 3D printer. You program the machine with a 3d CAD image and it will "print" the image in plastic. Although the resultant plastic figures are fairly small, with some imagination I can see endless possibilities for this equipment. For example when I was working we often had to have expensive models of small plastic components made to see if the ideas would work. With one of these we could have saved a small fortune. I'm not buying one at the moment but this is an area of technology to watch.


Now that I have retired I wonder if anyone out there would be interested in some business advice. If you want to be another Peter Jones or Alan Sugar then stop reading now but, having run a British manufacturing company and managed to sell it as a going concern and retire at a respectable fifty seven, some of my ideas may (just may) be of use to others starting out in their own business or maybe finding things hard in the current climate. I'm going to start a series of nuggets of advice tomorrow. I'm starting with one that's closest to my heart - getting the right work/life balance.


Until then I'll leave you with a lesson on how not to get your automatic car back on the road in these conditions.

NHS Hip Replacement. Getting Discharged.

It's Wednesday. About forty eight hours ago I was on the operating table but now I am walking back to the ward from the bathroom having washed and shaved myself. I say walking but it is really a case of dragging myself along on crutches. As I enter the main ward I meet my fellow patients properly for the first time. Graham who has worked outdoors all his life looks slim, tanned and healthy, Bob less so. The three of us look like triplets with our one elephantine and one normal leg. Bob and Graham have had knees done. We congratulate each other on our fine progress to date and I return to my single room. It's been pleasant having company for a few minutes but I want to recuperate in silence - and then there's the problem.

I haven't mentioned "the problem" on previous blogs as it's a little delicate and not something one normally shouts to the world. But the aim of this record is to give those who are going to have a hip replacement on the NHS an idea of what to expect and so I better give you the full story. Since I arrived back from theatre on Monday I have been creating enough gas to fire a small condensing boiler. Totally uncontrollable, the gas surfaces regularly throughout the day and forty eight hours on there's no sign of it blowing over. I believe that it's the result of painkillers causing constipation and constipation causing flatulence and I'm on some sort of windy merry go round until either the painkillers or the constipation die down.

Charlie the physio has given me some exercises to do in bed to speed recovery. One of these, the buttock clench, leaves me giving involuntary renditions of Colonel Bogey - and I'm supposed to repeat this hourly. I knew that private room would have its benefits and this is certainly one of them.

I fill in my time by starting to read nother novel. Like Bees To Honey by Caroline Smailes hails from the same The Friday Project stable as the excellent Confessions of a GP that I flew through yesterday. This is a wonderful and extremely original book. The author uses an interesting repetitive writing style combined with some highly innovative type setting to produce a unique reading experience. The book's theme is coming to terms with loss but this is done in such a different way to other rites of passage novels and when I tell you that it involves a beer swilling Jesus with scarlet toenails residing in Malta and competing for popularity with John Lennon you will appreciate that it is no everyday book. I can't put it down. I love it.

I don't flake out after Marion's visit this time and watch Arsenal play their Champions League match whilst reading The Guardian at the same time as the match is pretty dull. The nurses hint that I am making good enough progress to be sent home tomorrow. My spirits lift.

It's Thursday and potentially discharge day. I follow all of yesterday's lessons exactly and have myself washed and shaved in no time. I'm quite chuffed with my progress but Mr Ali arrives in the room and tells me that my walking is rubbish and I should be bending my leg more. It's not that easy after eighteen months of stiff legged limping, even more so with a leg that's ballooned to double its normal size. Anyway, he's happy with his handiwork. He tells me that my hip was a mess and he has cut off several chunks of arthritic growths of bone known as ossification (I think). He gives me a copy of my x ray as a souvenir and tells me that once I have walked up some stairs I am free to go.

Charlie wheels me to the hospital stairwell, It's freezing after the warmth of the ward and my teeth are chattering. But I want to master this and secure my release. He gives me a simple mnemonic "The Good The Bad And The Ugly" great for a film buff like me. I make a comment about Sergio Leone but it misses its target. I'm up the steps and down again in ten minutes. I feel like waving my crutches in the air in celebration. It's painful but it has  allowed me the chance to return home and at around 3pm, just over three days since admission Marion will be able to drive me back to Southport.

NHS Hip Replacement. The Post Op Days. Continued

It's 6 am Wednesday. I saw my consultant surgeon Mr Al briefly yesterday when he checked out my wounds and sent me for an X ray. He told me that I should expect my leg to swell up. I'm glad that he did as when I look down at my toes it appears that I have had a transplant from an elephant donor. My right leg is enormous and with the cuffs inflating and deflating around it I feel as if I am being pumped up and am not far from the point at which explosion becomes inevitable. But, as I am forewarned, I am forearmed and don't panic.

Last night has not been so good. It's still less than forty eight hours since I arrived in hospital but the feel good drugs that gave me such a high on Monday have now run their course and I flaked out completely the second that Marion left the ward. At around 10pm the nurses on their rounds had startled me awake from a deep sleep and I went into a fit of uncontrollable shivering for a minute or so as I came to my senses. I was detached from the monitor and from then onwards the monitor would simply be wheeled in as necessary. I start another shivering fit as I survey my elephantine limb. But a few deep breaths bring me back under control and I reach for Confessions of a GP.

Dr Benjamin Daniels is a pseudonym to protect patient confidentiality. His book is written at a cracking pace and crammed full of short three or four page chapters. One of our best friends is from a medical family and her mother was, her sister is and her son will be a GP. I know from our conversations that Benjamin is telling it as it is it and I laugh out loud at some of the observations that he makes. Having said that, the book is not aimed at the funny bone alone and there are a number of more poignant anecdotes such as examining his reaction to a paedophile who is sleeping in his own excrement or visiting a patient so morbidly obese that maggots have taken up residence between his thighs. I fly through the pages.

The ward starts to hum into life at around seven. Today's crop of nervous patients are starting to arrive with their equally nervous partners. I can hear them in the main ward but in my inner sanctum I am alone with my book although I have a steady stream of visitors. I have done my utmost to learn the names of everybody who has been looking after me and to find out a bit about them. The array of different uniforms is fascinating. A lady in green starts to clean my room. She is lucky to have a daughter who recently qualified as a barrister  who gives her a lift every morning. Her other daughter is a flight attendant with Easy Jet. There are lots of workers in pink tunics. Liz is a grandma and hopes to retire in five years. She is finding it a nightmare to get to work as the local roads are like an ice rink. Another has given up her season ticket at St Helens in favour of a visit to the Cheltenham Gold Cup. Student nurse uniforms come in two colours - grey for squeamish "Susan" and her pal from Edge Hill University and White for Gemma from UCLAN who used to be at school with my Goddaughter Kate. I learn about so many sons and daughters. I hear about the benefits of an insulin pump from a nurse whose diabetic induced renal failure led to three years of painful dialysis (I saw the scars) before a kidney transplant.

They are all, without exception, a credit to the NHS. Their uncomplaining positive attitude lifts the spirits of the place and gives me a feel good feeling however bad I feel. Nobody does this better than Jenny who I assume to be what we used to call matron or sister, I don't ask her her title. She has a dark blue uniform and runs the place with military efficiency without dropping the humanity for a second. I am so impressed by her hands on attitude and willingness to muck in and share the workload with everyone.

After breakfast my ankle cuffs are removed. The cannula is next to go and then finally it's time for the catheter to be pulled gently from where it has nested for the last two days. I've never experienced a catheter in my bladder before but I have to say that I have become quite attached to it in more ways than the obvious. There's something strange about watching a steady trickle of urine leaving your body and filling a bag alongside you while you have no sensation of what is going on. I could see it becoming popular with lads out on the town who don't want to leave their seat in the bar or be caught by the police pissing in doorways after closing time. There would invariably be machismo discussions on whose bag was filling the quickest. I'd happily insert them myself into some of the incontinents on row 65 of the Kop who somehow manage to take three trips to the loo inside ninety minutes.

My physio Charlie (white tunic, royal blue trousers) joins me at ten and moves me onto crutches. He is joined by Occupational Therapist Claire (white tunic,green trousers) and together they walk me to the bathroom and instruct me how to wash and shave myself safely and then leave me to it. Independence at last. I feel good and refreshed. I discover that Claire was in my daughter Sarah's class at school.

Back to the ward and I'm starting to feel that I'm making good progress.

NHS Hip Replacement. The post op days.

It's 4pm Monday. Marion has just left after visiting time and I'm starting to take in my surroundings. I've only been in hospital for nine hours but the op has been and gone. Whatever stimulant they gave me at the end of the operation, it's one hell of an upper and I don't think that I have felt as alert in years. I find time to make a couple of phone calls from my bedside. I'm linked up to one of those monitors that you always see in films and there are all sorts of electronic charts creating a constant stream of data being fed into it by a number of electrodes. I'm wearing some snazzy white stockings to reduce the risk of DVT and around each of my calves is an inflatable cuff that rhythmically expands and contracts at regular intervals. A similar cuff is attached to my arm and my blood pressure is monitored through this.


I find that there's a clip on my index finger and that sends info on my oxygen levels to the monitor. Unfortunately my circulation is poor so the monitor keeps going into alarm and bringing in one of the nursing staff. "You don't have Reynauds?" she asks."I did when I was small" - that explains it. So I keep massaging my fingers to save the nurses wasting their time.


I'm still wearing just a hospital gown. From my groin area a clear tube carries a regular stream of urine from my bladder into a plastic bag. From my leg wound another tube is full of blood directed into another bag and to the cannula in the back of my hand there's a tube sending fluid in the opposite direction. The cannula that had earlier been the gateway for my sedatives is now channelling a nutritious saline drip into my body. Later in the day the same cannula is used to deliver anti-biotics and to empty my full blood bag back into me - the ultimate in recycling. Best of all, shortly before lights out I get a dose of a morphine painkiller that works instantly.


I planned to read during my stay and I carry on with The Finkler Question. When Marion comes back at 6.30, I've had a few slices of bread and some soup and we spend the visiting time planning my TV viewing. I love Monday's on the BBC and after Marion leaves I start with University Challenge and , being in my own room, I can shout my (usually wrong)answers at the telly. Then there's Miranda. I adore Miranda. Then there's Liverpool writer Jimmy McGovern's brilliant drama The Accused. Andy Serkis is a low life stalker who wastes his money on gambling and abandons his wheelchair bound MS suffering wife for the unaware victim of his stalking. Blimey Jimmy anyone watching this would think that scousers were miserable bastards. Viewing finishes with Coogan and Brydon's culinary journey around the North West - The Trip. Brilliant.

I spend a few minutes doing the Professor Layton puzzles on the Nintendo DS before the morphine kicks in and I'm fast asleep.


It's six on Tuesday morning and before the ward gets active I finish The Finkler Question. I bought this specially for hospital as it was acclaimed as a comic novel and I could do with a laugh. There's no questioning that it is a brilliant literary work which draws the reader into the inner sanctum of Jewishness. But comedic? I see it as more tragic but maybe that's my state of mind. I start a new novel The Silver Linings Play Book by Matthew Quick. Breakfast of Weetabix and toast bulked up with my own pear and banana is welcome. At nine I am visited by a couple of care workers who help me to have a bed bath. There's no point in prudity or modesty although the women do treat me with great dignity.


A few minutes later I'm feeling refreshed and wearing a T Shirt and some clean boxer shorts. A nurse comes in and asks me if I mind a couple of student nurses getting involved. "Not at all". I chat to the girls and discover that they enrolled in September and today is their first work experience and their very first step into hands on nursing. And their first "hands on" experience? Checking my backside for bed sores - that's a memory that will stay with them. Actually one of them - I'll call her Susan- had another experience that she won't forget in a hurry a few minutes later. After checking my bum, the next job is to remove the drain from my wound. "Ok girls stand back and watch this" says the leader. I watch Susan and her colleague as the lead nurse pulls the long blood filled tune from deep inside my leg. Susan turns green and then white and I ask if she's OK. "Do you mind if I step outside?" she asks and the poor kid has to leave. I've certainly created an impression.

As morning progresses I'm unhooked from the monitor and told that the physio will be be along soon. By eleven o'clock, less than twenty four hours after the op, Charlie the physio helps me to my feet and into my zimmer frame which I use to drag myself a few feet to the bedside chair. There I remain for the rest of the day reading The Silver Linings Play Book which, a few questionable plot issues apart, is a highly entertaining study of depression and recovery from mental illness. I fly through the pages and by visiting time I've finished it. We do the Guardian Quick Crossword and Marion brings me some books published under the Friday Project label by Scott Pack who blogs and tweets entertainingly as meandmybigmouth (he's on my blog list up at the right). I choose Confessions of a GP by Dr Benjamin Daniels as it seems somehow appropriate and Like Bees To Honey by Caroline Smailes. I eat some pasta and the nursing staff help me back into bed. At the six pm visiting slot Marion once again helps me to choose my TV viewing schedule. She heads for home at eight and I settle back to watch and fall immediately into a heavy sleep.

NHS Hip Replacement. A Personal Experience

When I was working, one of the things that I enjoyed the most was our regular weekly work football sessions. Up to twelve of us from all parts of the business would take part in an hour or so of healthy competition and I liked the way that it gave everyone the opportunity to get to know others in various parts of the company - an assembly worker might be on the same side as me the MD with the Marketing director playing alongside the service engineer. I enjoyed it so much that I didn't give up when I started to suffer regular injuries about four years ago and it was only when I picked up what I thought was a groin strain in April 2009 that I reluctantly hung up my trainers. Months of visits to the GP and the groin strain didn't improve. I tried a chiropractor without success and then finally a new doctor suggested I see a physiotherapist. I'll never forget the physio's words as I limped into his waiting room for my appointment. He took one look at me and said "You're here about the groin strain". "Yes". "That's not a groin strain, that's your hip." And there in thirty seconds, after three months of misdiagnosis, I had my answer.


Within a couple of weeks I was seeing an orthopedic consultant who explained that my hip had been arthritic for years and would need replacing. He told me everything about the procedure and asked if I would like to be booked in. Running our own company it was not that simple to take out a couple of months for recovery so I said that I would work towards it. We had had a number of companies interested in buying our business so Marion and I decided to take the plunge and sell up before booking in for the operation.


Fortunately we achieved a sale quite quickly and in January 2010 the business was no longer ours. However we had promised our new owners that we would work for them until 30th November to ensure a smooth transfer and I did not want to renege on that deal. We returned to see the consultant and asked if I could be booked in for the first available date after 30th November. We retired last Tuesday and on Monday this week I found myself in Ormskirk General Hospital orthopedic wing at seven o'clock sharp.

And less than six hours later this is what my hip looked like. I certainly seemed to have hit the jackpot and I really should have bought a lottery ticket on that day as just about everything that could have gone right did so.


I don't support private medicine. I don't think it is fair that those who pay can jump the queue ahead of those that can't and I think that we should all be treated as equals. Having said that it would be a pretty valid argument to say that those who do pay are saving the rest of the taxpayers a substantial sum. Anyway I read in my admission booklet that a single bed ward was available at a small extra charge and to phone in advance to check availability. I phoned and it was available and there was no charge - stroke of luck number one. I found myself in a pleasant and quiet room. When other patients asked how I had wangled it I simply asked if they had read the booklet - they hadn't.


My next bit of good news was that I was first on the list which meant that I had less time to feel nervous and the staff would be at their least tired. The good news continued to roll as Mr Ali the foremost consultant orthopedic surgeon in the area popped in and confirmed that he would be doing the operation in person. I hope that this was a result of all the effort I made in losing almost three stone at his suggestion before the op. After Mr Ali's quick briefing, a few blood tests, blood pressure and other readings and some consent forms to sign, my bad leg was marked with a big arrow and I was wheeled down to surgery. A few apprehensive moments chatting to other patients in the pre-op holding area followed before I was wheeled into theatre. Yet another stroke of luck. I was greeted by the consultant anaesthetist - I could not be in better hands. He explained the anesthetic procedure would involve a needle in my back which would numb my lower body. I told him that I got squeamish watching Casualty and didn't want to hear my bones being sawn through. He reassured me that he would give me a happy drug that would mean that I would know nothing about it. A cold spray on my back and a cannula being inserted in my hand was the last I remember.


The next words I heard were Mr Ali saying that it was all done. I could sense someone pushing at my thigh and I was suddenly wide awake and incredulous that it was indeed all over and I had felt nothing. I have had more painful visits to the loo. By one o'clock I was back in my room sitting up, eating a slice of toast and drinking tea. I started to read a new book. At 3pm Marion came to visit for an hour and returned at 6 for two more. I managed to complete the quick crossword, do a few puzzles on the Nintendo DS and almost finish reading The Finkler Question before flaking out exhausted at 10. What an incredible event it had been. I was treated so well by everyone from the consultants to the porters and the support staff on the ward had been exceptionally caring. I'll continue writing about the rest of the experience and the three nights in hospital as I make my recovery. 


Until then I'll leave you with my favourite act for tonight's X Factor final. I have put my entire Betfair account on Cher. I doubt that she will win, but if the audience vote on whether somebody has something special about them rather than being merely a good singer, there's only one real winner.