This be the chairs...

Tonight I went to the theatre. The seating comprised hard plastic seats and I sat next to a man who was so large he occupied half of my seat too. Which, as if my current injuries aren't bad enough on their own, was hideously uncomfortable. I tried to move the chairs apart at the interval only to discover that they were bound together. The man smiled at me but didn't move. He suggested the bondage-style seating arrangement was, in some way, Larkinesque (the play, Something Hidden, is about Philip Larkin and the women in the poet's life). Which, of course, it wasn't. They f*k you up, those seat hogging audience members.

Crash, bang, wallop...

Today was a write off. Well, actually my car was a write off. At about 10.20am. Which was the moment in time when, as I sat in my car waiting at a red light, a DAF lorry belonging to Kwik Fit decided to plough into the back of my vehicle. Ironically, the side of the lorry contained an advert that asked: "Does your car need an MOT?" Sadly, it needs slightly more than that.

Having refused a journey in an ambulance to casualty just after the crash, I was persuaded to make the trip later in the day. I spent four hours mulling around accident and emergency drinking really horrible vending machine coffee. Was kept amused for a short time by a builder who sat opposite, who had fired a six inch nail from a Hilti gun through his thumb. It looked like the kind of visual gag you'd buy from a joke shop. After he'd been sat there for five minutes a 12-year-old in a tracksuit wandered over and asked the highly intelligent question, "does that hurt?". I got the all-clear from a nurse after 40 minutes but then had to wait for the same from a doctor. I embarrassed myself when I misheard a name that was announced. For a few brief seconds I was, in the eyes of the waiting room's varied clientele, who watched me jump to my feet and dash towards the nurse, Jane Winters.