Back in the saddle. Major surgery, complications, serious illness, slow, continuing recovery.
My best laid schemes for the exposure of cliché-ridden mediaspeak, and a catalogue of silly name spellings have rapidly descended my list of priorities. So has my planned piece on the evil that is Starbucks. I may manage it eventually, but for now I think I'll just kvetch (or it quetsch?).
What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, that's what the platitudinarians say, and it's shite. What doesn't kill us softens us up for the next attack on our physical well-being. We are left weaker, not stronger; and, I'm wagering, our lives are shortened by the massive drain on our powers of resistance and recovery from an attack on our system. The Iceman hasn't got me yet, but I don't think he's given up on me. He isn't saying "How much stronger is Jemmy Hope!" More likely he's saying "Next time will be easier."
But have I said one word of thanks, one word of praise, for the dedicated people who brought me through the ordeal? The thanks are felt and meant, and were expressed at the time. What I would add is that those fine, hard working people who work at the gory end of our once great National Health Service deserve better than they are getting from managers, money-grubbers, and the lying politicians who are cosying up to the privateers - oh. and ineffectual full-time union officials.