(Photo taken by my glamorous assistant, Robin)
Meh. Rather than show you the x-rays of my arm to show you the bit of bone they need to lop off my elbow, here's a photograph in which I'm showing off the ulnar groove on a pterodactyl's arm instead.
Speaking of violent castration with a Stanley knife, I went to see The Choir last night at the new theatre above The Stag pub in Victoria. Not a bad play, although I just spoiled the ending, so now you don't have to worry about getting the horn watching men in their late twenties pretending to have sadomasochistic sex. Of course, I'd pay to watch that any time, but the characters were meant to be 11, so it was a little bit odd to be thinking about how brutally you wanted to do one of the actors in it. Ok, so now you want to see it again, don't you?
For some reason one of my favourite things at the moment is coming up with ideas for rape-themed Venn diagrams. I'm not entirely sure that this is a healthy project.
I had the pre-operation assessment yesterday, too. Calling it that kept making me think I was going to wind up with a statutory declaration renouncing and rescinding my previous gender, but alas, all they wanted to do was weigh me, measure me and decide if I was likely to die from anaesthetic. It wasn't like the time when I overdosed on valium after the murder trial and went to hospital high as a kite and was told I was too fat to die that day. Instead, he commented that my BMI of 26 was "probaby ok" and this was because BMI's a blunt tool that doesn't account for muscle mass or bone density.
So it's official. I'm not fat, I'm just big boned.
Which is, apparently, the crux of the matter. On my elbows, where I need ulnar decompression, my nerves would probably have healed from the RSI by themselves were it not for my having a bit too much bone there, hence the need to slash my arms open (down the road, not across the street, too!) and then get inside with a pair of bolt cutters to trim the bone away. Sweet.