I cant stand up for falling down......

Sang Elvis Costello in 1980, which leads me appropriately to the vagaries of recovery. An update is required methinks, no we are not Tudor this week, thank jollyness for that.

So this morning I bounced out of bed with all the enthusiasm and energy of Nick Clegg rushing to a photo opportunity in the riot torn suburbs of Olde Englande, had a yawn and a stretch, only to find myself exactly fourteen seconds later plummeting to the floor, as fast as Phil Goff's popularity (NZ Opposition "leader" and generally ignored by the electorate). So I am guessing that the blood pressure is still an issue at the moment?
I quietly examined my predicament, I was unhurt, and unbruised, so presumably could crawl upstairs, like a baby perhaps. Though what that would do for my dignity is anyone's guess. I surreptitiously glanced around to ensure that I had not been observed,  thus losing my immaculate image of Cool Britannia, and then safe in the knowledge that my mojo was intact,  I pondered the issue. Perhaps I could try and stand again, stagger up the stairs and make for the kettle, to rectify my apparent fluid imbalance. But what if I experienced another unpleasant collapse? Well it shouldn't be too bad, as I don't appear yet to have osteoporosis, but it is a very unpleasant feeling, rather akin to all your blood draining from your brain and rushing to the pit of your stomach, at which point, once the last drop has met up with its colleagues, it musters together and plans a vicious assault on your perpendicular stance, and then with a whoomp, down you go, like a chimney being demolished, albeit with less dust.
Perhaps I could compromise, and stand and move whilst in a bent over position? That might work, though forward vision might be a bit odd, not to mention my sense of decorum. A nanosecond of sustained thought later, I decided on the latter course. Oh well here goes, and with that I made a dash for the kitchen, up 2 flights of stairs, leaving my disorientated blood cells unable to regroup and take me down. Yay! Gold medal for England.
I reached the safety of the kettle and rested my head on the granite workbench, in an effort to confuse my errant blood pressure that all was alright. Alas I only partially succeeded for hey presto, like a much maligned and eager puppy, keen to be by my side, the wooziness and general chimney felling feeling briefly returned, though this time I managed to avoid  becoming recumbent on the kitchen floor. After a  stewards inquiry it seemed I was no longer eligible for the gold medal after all.A  few moments of self correction later, I managed to grapple my way to the supply of pills and potions that are still on top of the kitchen bench, after 5 weeks out of the hospital! I quickly polished off my morning tablets and after several libations later, felt sufficient stable to make a dash for the sofa.

There I relaxed after my mornings exertions and heaved a sigh of relief as I drew to my side all the accoutrements of recuperation, i.e. the TV remotes, my mobile, the house phone, a suitably unread magazine, and of course my Ipad. I was now established until either lunch or my noon course of pills summoned me back to the kitchen with their sirens call "Andrew, come in here, we are  are waiting for you, you will be fine, and wont fall over, we promise, come on its not far and you do so want us....."
Well this time I will be ready for them with a stiff upper lip, a sense of British decorum and a Tally Ho and a toodle pip! No bronze for this Brit!

Though I will in all likelihood probably be humiliated and end up on the floor, not unlike J-Lo or David Tua, just like the probable humiliating national defeat in both the forthcoming RWC and next year's London Olympics.

Tomorrow my attempts at driving, an update regarding the District Nurse and the problems of when your partner gets a migraine and cant look after you......