Ten months late, £60,000 over budget and now single, Tom was just about find out what was the worst that could happen. Over the course of an hour Homes under the Hammer had proved itself to be good clean fun. A couple of estate agents turned up and pronounced that Tom's work was not quite what they expected and then they both valued the house a long way under what Tom needed just to break even. Tom wasn't smiling down the bottle anymore. He decided that as he had lost so much at auction that there must be another mug out there so he was going to auction his house too.
The room was packed, Tom had cellotaped a smile on his face, and his home was next under the hammer. Would there be someone in the room stupider than Tom. The camera zoomed in on the auctioneer, "Will anyone start me Daniel?"
My brain went a little numb whilst I realised the nurse was calling me. I didn't want to go, I needed to know what the worst was for Tom.
"Daniel!" She called again. I couldn't hold out any longer, there was only me and the Indian chap there and he really didn't look like a Daniel. At that moment another nurse was talking to him. Unfortunately his sons/translators had already left.
"Where are your sons Mr Patel?" He pointed at his knee. "Have you signed the consent form?" She did the international sign for 'bring me the bill' hoping that he would know she was talking about his medical consent form. He was still pointing at his knee, she started talking louder because that turns English into Gujurati.
"Daniel?" Nurse number one was right in front of me.
"Yes. Sorry. I wanted to know what happened to Tom."
"He's not called Tom, he's called Mitesh." I didn't argue, I just followed her. Surely this was it. She pushed open some double doors and I entered a modern, clean and bright operating theatre.
My first thought was that the bed looked really narrow. I wasn't expecting a king size but this looked tiny. I managed to squeeze on and lay back just as the head anesthetist approached.
When people talk to you and you're lying down they seem really strange. His head seemed massive but he was calm and friendly. He even said "Mr Knee will take good care of you, he's very good." I felt reassured, but it is not as though he would say anything else. Whilst he was talking he was messing about with my hand. I knew he was sticking a needle in it but if I didn't look it didn't hurt.
"What job do you do?"
"I'm an actors agent."
"Oooh, we could get on telly everyone."
I made a lame joke about auditioning for Casualty and we had no chance for a second take. As I finished the joke, Aisha put a mask over my face, "It's oxygen." It smelt plastic.
Three hours later I woke up with a hamstring, cut from my own leg, strapped through my knee where the ACL used to be. It hurt a bit, I felt incredibly sleepy, I just couldn't open my eyes for more than a second and then a physio came through the curtain and started talking to me. I have no idea what she said. She could have asked me for my bank account details and I may have given them to her, I just don't know. In the literature it says not to sign any important documents after being under anesthetic, now I know why.
At some point later, it could have been a minute or five hours, Mr Knee turned up.
"Hi Daniel. That went well."
"Did it?"
"Yep. Best hamstrings I've ever seen. Superb."
"Really?"
"Oh yes. Now remember, 10 10 10. Okay?" He went to leave.
"What?" He came back.
"10 10 10 . 10 minutes ice, 10 minutes heel hanging, 10 minutes walking with crutches. The rest of every hour is your own." He flicked his surgeons thumbs up, gave me a dazzling smile and swept out repeating his mantra; "10 10 10".
I repeated it again in my head, over and over. Then suddenly I couldn't remember what the third ten was for. I fell asleep.
The room was packed, Tom had cellotaped a smile on his face, and his home was next under the hammer. Would there be someone in the room stupider than Tom. The camera zoomed in on the auctioneer, "Will anyone start me Daniel?"
My brain went a little numb whilst I realised the nurse was calling me. I didn't want to go, I needed to know what the worst was for Tom.
"Daniel!" She called again. I couldn't hold out any longer, there was only me and the Indian chap there and he really didn't look like a Daniel. At that moment another nurse was talking to him. Unfortunately his sons/translators had already left.
"Where are your sons Mr Patel?" He pointed at his knee. "Have you signed the consent form?" She did the international sign for 'bring me the bill' hoping that he would know she was talking about his medical consent form. He was still pointing at his knee, she started talking louder because that turns English into Gujurati.
"Daniel?" Nurse number one was right in front of me.
"Yes. Sorry. I wanted to know what happened to Tom."
"He's not called Tom, he's called Mitesh." I didn't argue, I just followed her. Surely this was it. She pushed open some double doors and I entered a modern, clean and bright operating theatre.
My first thought was that the bed looked really narrow. I wasn't expecting a king size but this looked tiny. I managed to squeeze on and lay back just as the head anesthetist approached.
When people talk to you and you're lying down they seem really strange. His head seemed massive but he was calm and friendly. He even said "Mr Knee will take good care of you, he's very good." I felt reassured, but it is not as though he would say anything else. Whilst he was talking he was messing about with my hand. I knew he was sticking a needle in it but if I didn't look it didn't hurt.
"What job do you do?"
"I'm an actors agent."
"Oooh, we could get on telly everyone."
I made a lame joke about auditioning for Casualty and we had no chance for a second take. As I finished the joke, Aisha put a mask over my face, "It's oxygen." It smelt plastic.
Three hours later I woke up with a hamstring, cut from my own leg, strapped through my knee where the ACL used to be. It hurt a bit, I felt incredibly sleepy, I just couldn't open my eyes for more than a second and then a physio came through the curtain and started talking to me. I have no idea what she said. She could have asked me for my bank account details and I may have given them to her, I just don't know. In the literature it says not to sign any important documents after being under anesthetic, now I know why.
At some point later, it could have been a minute or five hours, Mr Knee turned up.
"Hi Daniel. That went well."
"Did it?"
"Yep. Best hamstrings I've ever seen. Superb."
"Really?"
"Oh yes. Now remember, 10 10 10. Okay?" He went to leave.
"What?" He came back.
"10 10 10 . 10 minutes ice, 10 minutes heel hanging, 10 minutes walking with crutches. The rest of every hour is your own." He flicked his surgeons thumbs up, gave me a dazzling smile and swept out repeating his mantra; "10 10 10".
I repeated it again in my head, over and over. Then suddenly I couldn't remember what the third ten was for. I fell asleep.
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