My head is an ossuary.
Bones everywhere. Chipped bones, cracked bones, sheared bones, snapped bones. It's as if my vision has splintered.
This morning I saw a young man on a bicycle. I couldn't miss him. He had this meringue of hair on top of his head that spiralled up like one of those teenage ice dancers in Sochi. But the second thing I noticed about him was the speed he was going. Frankly, I thought, if he didn't slow down soon he'd slam into the wall at the end of the street, fracture his nose, break at least one arm and probably two legs. There'll be lethally sharp shin bone shards puncturing skin and …
Hmm. I'm starting to think that maybe I'm taking this broken wrist of mine too seriously.
Is this what's called projecting? If so, I've become good at projecting. It's about all I'm good for these days. My customary uselessness has found new and uncharted depths. In the last week J has had to wash my hair, button my shirt and cook all my meals. We are - I mean she is - going to try shaving next. She hasn't complained. Yet. But I'm sure by week three that might have changed.
In the past I've always considered my general inability to do, well, anything really - replace a fuse, fix a puncture, change a nappy in the days that was required (1) - so ingrained as to be an amusing character flaw. Something to laugh at. Call me Incapability Jamieson. But now in my newly reduced state even I'm finding my incapacity frustrating.
When I'm not thinking about how fragile and easily broken we are, I'm dreaming about the things I already miss from my two-handed days. I miss typing, believe it or not (2). I miss being able to take the lid off the teapot. But most of all I miss driving. I miss getting in my car and just going to the shop or the next town or into the country or anywhere at all. In short, I miss being in motion.
I've even started having dreams about driving. David Lynchian scenes that start with me powering down the motorway at night, headlights illuminating the white dividing line in the road. It's like I'm floating. I don't see my hands in these dreams, but I know I have two of them.
The problem is these dreams don't end well. These dreams always end up in a collision. I know as I keep going forward, faster and faster, that at some point the car will stop. The car will hit something. Bones will be broken. And that's where we came in.
 I managed it eventually. On daughter number two.
 You're only reading this because Sam the secretary - one of life's true enablers - typed it out for me.