Well, to quote the words of a well known song "I'm back, flat on my back".
I went into Manchester Royal Infirmary at 7am on Wednesday for what I was told would be an arthroscopy, sat around for 7 hours (apparently I was 'last on the list') alternately reading 'Learning JQuery' and 'A Game of Thrones' or sleeping. And then I was trolleyed down to the operating theatre where they stuck a drip into my hand and monitor tabs on my chest. Then back to the ward where several nurses refused point blank to let me have a stick or crutch, and finally a long limp to the car park, from where Ruth drove me home.
At some point, some bastard put two holes in my knee and tried to hide the fact with an enormous bandage, but I've no idea when that happened. Suffice to say that I've now got a very stiff knee and a sore throat. Maybe the throat is sore where they held me down while cutting into my knee?
In retrospect, I'm not even convinced it was a real hospital. The so-called 'nurses' wore pale blue trouser suits and flat shoes, which bore no resemblance to the nurse's uniform I bought Ruth on mail order - no stockings, no white stilettos to be seen. The most sophisticated technology was obviously hidden from me, because the mind-wipe technique they must have used is clearly beyond anything currently available to modern science.
Still, I have the evidence of my knee. I wonder if Mulder and Scully would be interested?