It's done. It worked, we think.

I've been home 7 days now. This morning I cleared away the medical stuff that had lingered. Pain meds, spare compression socks, constipation powder, letters from the hospital, Spatone. I moved the projector from the boudoir back up to the lounge–that was too good and I would never leave the boudoir if I kept it there, but maybe it will return for the right moment or person–and am generally feeling like myself much more again now.

The keyhole surgery really is amazing. I have two tiny stab wounds on my belly. I call them stab wounds but they are not stab wounds, and the largest wound is an unravelled and then remade belly button, which is also healing well. 

I went for my post-op checkup on Tuesday evening. I had ordered a taxi at the normal timeframe+buffer to get to Great Portland Street, but no cab turned up through the app. It was raining, I thought, so London cabs must be busy. I thought. I kept trying, but no luck. The buffer disappeared and I don't like to be late so I tried Uber. There was a driver and £40 surge but I just had to go so what the hell. I rugged up and grabbed my brolly and left my cocoon for the first time. I think the driver had just put out a cigarette because when I got in, I was whacked by that smell; interesting given that I'd also smoked myself for many years. I cracked open the window a bit even though it was raining.

Now that I've been in London for almost 8 years(!), I do sometimes have opinions on the odd routes not-cab drivers take. Boy do we put our trust in apps like Waze, etc. The route was very strange. The route was also crawling. We spent about an hour and a half taking what should normally be about a 30 minute journey. Unfortunately, when we were stationary near the university in Bloomsbury, I broke down and began to cry. I was very late by then, and even though I'd texted the Mrs to let her know some time before that moment, and she'd said not to worry, I was overwhelmed. I cried and my nose was running under my mask. I couldn't calm. I tried deep breathing and all that, but it kept coming. (I'd cried a little too the first day I got back from the hospital too, because I was tired and upset and exhausted actually and had kept as even as I could while I was there even though all this intense shit was happening.) I rang Mrs and sniffled that I'd be there as soon as I could and she said don't worry and I hung up. The last few hundred metres the roads were more open and the driver was able to use the brakes again and it was jerky a bit and I almost said CAN YOU FUCKING NOT DO THAT I HAD SURGERY AND WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS JOURNEY but I didn't and then we got there and he stopped across from the hospital and I didn't even know if I could walk there and but I did. 

I stood outside for a moment trying to stop the leaking tears and couldn't really and I was so late that I just went in anyway. Perhaps now that I'm officially a crone I don't have to care at all about perceptions people have of things like this. My first test. 

The receptionist said can you fill out these two forms and I said I didn't bring my glasses. She kindly read me the standard COVID questions. Anyway, I'm going to stop giving you the blow-by-blow now and leave it that Mrs was happy with my progress and it was she who informed me that the whole city was a disaster thanks to a massive tube strike that day and then she drove me home. She thought I might have had an adrenaline rush in the Uber that I couldn't handle. Isn't that interesting.

It's one of the best feelings when friends say don't lift that and then they lift it for you. 

Here's me watching too many X-Men films on Day 2 in hospital:

The best bit is obviously when Hugh Jackman gets his clothes blown off by his lover/enemy in X-Men 3. See below: