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  • Writer's pictureDan Cardwell

Patience: Zero/ “And don’t worry about your booties, cause you’re not going out there”

It was the actual Groundhog Day the other day (it’s a real tradition in the states and Canada) and to celebrate the little creature coming out and telling some small town to wrap up warm for another month, Sky ran the film over and over again on one of their channels. Which seemed apt to me, as currently I wake up every day stuck in this bed, doomed to repeat the same actions over and over again under the scornful eye of an evil groundhog. A broken femur should also come with the diagnosis of a severe case of the Bill Murries.

But, whilst Bill may moan at his luck of repeating a day stuck in a small town, he has no idea how much better it would be than repeating a day stuck in a small bed. I’m at the point in the film where he has had enough and just tries to commit suicide over and over again (metaphorically speaking – don’t worry, it’s not a cry for help). Of course, he gets over it by doing good deeds like running around saving a boy falling from a tree. Which doesn't seem an option in my condition.

It is very much a case of rinse, lather, repeat right now. I normally get tired enough to sleep around 2am. Then I’ll doze off till about 3. Be awake in pain but fall back to sleep after 20 minutes. Then I’ll wake up at 5 and by then, sleep is but a waking dream. Jacqui (previously referred to as the wife) will then get up and kindly refill all my various supplies and make me tea, then set-up the stool and paraphernalia to wash. Once washed, I’ll do some work until 1pm. Then I’ll watch a bit of TV, do a bit of writing, watch a bit more tv, do a bit of writing, play a game, tv, writing. In between moaning about the terrible pain I’m in, obviously. Well, and all the eating. I got food, babe. And as it turns out, I still can’t stop pummelling into my fat face. There’s a scene in the film where Bill sits in the diner and orders every kind of cake imaginable, knowing there will be no consequence to his body the next day. I’m doing the same thing but am waking up each day with an extra inch of fat on me. With the beard and enforced sweatpants, my increased weight is making me look less Ben Affleck in the midsts of a second divorce and more 40 something man who lives in his mother’s basement and writes misogynistic comments on Twitter to public figures.

And, amazingly, I’m running out of things I want to watch on TV. The result, it seems, of now having a million channels and multiple streaming services is that it now takes you 50 times longer to realise there is nothing on. People have been moaning there is nothing decent to watch since the idiot’s lantern was invented, but in many ways, I’m nostalgic for the days when you could realise that in 5 minutes. You can now spend an entire evening scrolling through programmes, looking hopefully for something to entertain, the search only ending when you realise it’s time for bed.

Still, IVF day is next week. And that means two exciting things. One is pretty obvious. And, the other is, I can finally drink again. After 2 months off alcohol, I can finally get back on it. Then, I’ll bearded, badly dressed, fat. And drunk. I'll be back to feeling much more like myself.

Right, gotta go. Despite my inability to walk, I’ve got to go try kill a groundhog.

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