Woke up this morning thinking my arm had miraculously healed itself overnight as it wasn't really hurting any more.
But a quick diagnostics check revealed that it's still broken: I still can't do the robot dance.
So it looks like I'll still be checking into L'Hotel Derriford tomorrow morning to have it fixed.
I've started my pre-operation preparations: I just ate enough mash to kill a lesser woman, and I've set my alarm to get up early for my "light breakfast" before the big fast begins. Two thick sliced pieces of toast count as a light breakfast, don't they?
I'm not allowed to wear any make up or nail varnish so that'll all be coming off shortly :( and I thought I would straighten my hair. Call me vain but if I die on the operating table bare-faced and starving, at least I'll go down with half decent hair.
I can't quite believe I've neglected to report this, but in case I did, the surgeon carrying out my operation is a Naval Commander, and all week I've been paranoid that as I go under, I'm going to start singing this*:
Trust me, it could happen. Last week when he was sat in front of me and my Dad in his Commander uniform telling us that he would be doing the operation himself, I blurted out this:
"Oooh goody! You look like a man who knows what he's doing!"
It's my nerves! Honestly, I can't help it, these things just pop out.
See you all on the flipside.
*If you watch the video, you'll notice Kel deliberately taunting me with a series of arm movements I am currently unable to make.