I was going to see my physiotherapist (or physical therapist I believe some people call them), but he fell ill and because he'd failed to mark my appointment in his diary, his colleagues didn't know to warn me before I turned up at the practice, and I was so flustered I didn't think to ask whether any of them could see me instead. So now my shoulder, having enjoyed a nice rest this week, hardly hurts at all anymore. I'd be tempted to go back to work -as I'm going out of my skull with boredom watching daytime telly- only...I'm not sure the problem won't come back within hours of me starting again. After all, my first day back at work full-time last Monday proved to be a killer, and I couldn't even finish it. Besides, the doctor told me to take two weeks off, so another week of faffing about stretches in front of me.
But the thing that depressed me most this week was that I had to decide against the idea of following David Berkeley on his February tour of the Home Counties, or even coming down for just the weekend. As much as it would perk me up, I simply can't afford it now.