All hail the return, uninvited as ever, of the Knee of Death. Knee of Death! How very much I have not missed you in the brief fortnight since Doctor Evil stuck his massive needle in you. Roommate is not looking at me sideways with narrowed eyes, but has raided the first aid cupboard for Nurofen Max (pfff, the Knee of Death laughs in the face of Nurofen Max!) in defiance of several office regulations and put a box under my desk for the useless appendage, because she is charitable and I am the kind of person who kicks puppies for fun and pulls the wings off butterflies.
All this is merely verbal decoration around me telling you that Present Clinic is deferred until tomorrow due to my appointment with the Knee of Death. Oh, and remember, only 24 more hours to submit your horrid Christmas tales to win the Belgian Waffle Advent Calendar.
I might post later or I might still be handcuffed to a chair in a folorn corner of northern Brussels refusing to leave until Doctor Evil cuts my leg off. Who knows? Of such small mysteries life is made. Ok, now I am tripping on dried fruit and Nurofen, time to stop.