Madam Lash, Stephen Hawking's Wheelchair and How I Became a Gimp.

Today's post is being written via Stephen Hawking's wheelchair.
Not his actual chair, but one very much like it.  One that you nudge a ball on a stick with your knuckle and it goes forwards, backwards and calculates the distance to the nearest binary stars.
Because I have limited use of my fingers I'm using one of those disabled type-writer thingies where you just have to look at the letter on the keyboard and it types for you.

When I woke up this morning the only thing I could move were my eyes.  Blurry images...bright lights... disinfectant and masked men hovering over me with syringes of morphine.  There was also a strange noise.....kind of a cross between a howling dog and a chainsaw cutting metal pipes....it was....over.....there....but strangely....so close.
PAIN...oh the ow ow ow ow oooowwwwwwwww  PAAAAAIIIIINNNNNNN!!! Then an urgent voice....
"We're losing her Dr McDreamy....quick.....paddles. STAND CLEAR!"
PwhoooomPH!
Metal. Needle. Squirt. Jab.
All better now.

It was all the fault of Madam Lash.
Remember I was telling you about the 60-year-old circuit instructor who cracks walnuts with her butt?
Yeah, well when said to her; "I compare thee to sadistic serial killing Megatron on crack," I was being nice.
This woman is The AntiChrist.
Ol' IronThighs caught me just as I rolled from an ab crunching machine and curled into the foetal position sucking my thumb.
"WhaddayathinkthisisaFRIGGINPICNIC?Getupandgetyourbuttonthatlatdrawdown.NOW!!"
I wimpered and complied, lest she should use on me that cat-o-nine-tails she swats flys with.
(Me good English language first.)
For someone who should be crippled with thinning bones, dicky hips and arthritic fingers she is remarkably, nay spookily, bouncy and able to do complex arm movements whilst star-jumping.
It's just not natural! The only reasonable explaination is that she drinks the blood of  baby pandas, injects sheep hormones and eats placentas during the summer solstice.

At the end of the class during Vladivostockovian Yoga (designed to tangle even the most adept contortionist) Madam Lash looked at me (I swear her pupils were GLOWING RED) and said "So, Charlotte, how did you find your class."
"Me, good......beetroot...lung...puff.....ambulance," was the best I could muster.

Somehow I managed to slither, jellified, to my car.  Once home I collapsed onto my bed and asked the dog to dial 000.

Madam Lash and I meet again tomorrow.  I'm quivering with fear already. Every muscle is protesting.....begging for a reprieve.  I've developed a twitch in my right eye.

Perhaps I have died.  And gone to hell.

I've got a 12 month membership.