Oh The Hills

I had to drive through four fixed speed cameras to get to work today. I don't speed much anymore. I can't remember why I ever used to, but after my second speeding fine back in 04 I realised it wasn't worth it. Actually I think I continued to speed for years after that, until I moved to the plains where there are speed cameras everywhere.

Peak hour traffic, speed cameras and parking stress me. In the hills you could always find a park. And you could read books on the train instead of sitting in traffic.

Pros for new work location: There's a reserve with a river out the back; there's fake sugar in the coffee stations so I don't have to steal packets from cafes; the desk ergonomics are actually pretty good.

Cons for new work location: The park with a river out the back is much smaller than the one at my old work; the microwaves to people ratio is much lower; the window is so far away I can't even tell if it's raining or not; the toilets are too bright to nap in; there's no paper towel in the toilets so you have to use a hand drier; the hand driers are "Bradley" brand yet they MOCK me with the instruction "please rotate hands while drying." Fuck you Bradley hand drier!

There's more but I think I'm on a tangent. I had another wrist appointment today where they did some strength/movement tests then asked me some survey questions. The answers were: Able, With difficulty, With Assistance, Impossible.

Question 1: I can use my back pocket
Able

Question 2: I can wipe myself after going to the bathroom?
That's question 2? I don't use that hand

Question 2b: But if you did use that hand?
...
*slowly mimics the action to test wrist ability*
... able?

Who is going to answer "with assistance" to that question?!

Question 3: I can comb my hair?
At this point the reverse cycle kicks in, giving a slight tousle to my long, unkempt locks.

Question 4: I can carry a shopping bag weighing 5 to 7 kilograms?
Why wasn't that question 2? Who ordered these questions!?

I'm having another operation on October 30 to remove the surgical button in and on my ulna and to snap through some of the scar tissue to - fingers crossed (able) - return most of my lost movement.

The scar tissue manipulation is where one surgeon holds my unconscious arm down firmly while the other twists it round like he's cracking firewood. I asked my therapist about the details last week. He explained it with an anecdote about how cool and loud it is.

Today the surgeon asked if I knew what the operation entailed and when I said yes she looked a little disapointed that I knew what she got to do.

Writing is good.