Next Saturday at 07.00 hours, I shall be reporting to my hospital for my shoulder surgery. I don’t want sympathy, pity, sorrow or people going ‘ahhhhh, poor thing’. I just want money. In large notes, non-sequential serial numbers, in piles, heaps and bundles. You can keep your fucking grapes.

That’s if they allow visitors. I’m not sure how the ‘Covid changes’ coming in on Monday will affect the afflicted. Which is serious because I need to ensure that the guy delivering my pizza will be able to gain entry. Otherwise it might get cold if they have to drag a nurse out of the operating theatre to bring it to me. “Stella, can you put your finger on this severed artery for me, I gotta take Andy his double pepperoni with chilli”.

So I haven’t booked my tennis court next Saturday. Should be fine for Sunday though.

Ok, I appreciate it might take a little while. I can accept that. It’s not being able to put my own socks on which bothers me more. Never mind shirts? T-shirts?? Making tea? Opening whisky bottles? Holding someone down while you punch them? Juggling knives?? How’s all that going to work? Opening my flies to take a pee? I wear Levis. With button fly. How can I hold my phone to my ear whilst driving??? All with one hand??? Life promises to be interesting for a few weeks. I wouldn’t want to be Mel.

Meanwhile, we saw off Eunice! She came yesterday, we said: ‘bring it on, if yer ‘are enough’ and she did. Caused destruction, a few deaths, we lost a few roofs, couple of garden sheds and numerous trees. Most of which seemed to fall onto cars. So when Storm Freddie or Fergus or Francis comes, leave the car at home.

But heh, at least it had the decency to leave in time for tennis today. Before the rain started (just, like, rain, not worthy of being named). And tonight its the start of the Spurs renaissance. We’re on the up. No question. Starts today, 5.30. At the Etihad… hmmm…

Happy Op-7 day

A xxxx