2019, January and I was bed-bound for six weeks as the most crippling of pains burnt, pierced, scraped, smashed, needled and electrocuted their way through the path from my neck to my left arm and finally my hand, leaving me with a half-paralysed grasp when it finally subsided after a chiropractic visit that took away the perma-pain.
This was my welcome into a brand new year.
6 weeks in bed, ditching the complex-care work I was doing and now up to my neck in bills with no occupation.
The neurologist was succinct.
Half an hour of electric needle tests and he said you've got brachial neuritis and we don't know what causes it.
Six fucking weeks and I got a name to call it by, and nothing else except bouts of pain for the rest of my life and a gammy typing hand after decades of effortless writing.
That's when I realised I'd fucked up and not written the book I'd mulled over for half a century, while I could still touch-type.
Too late buster.
Had it...
Lost it...
Serves you right.
Som nom naa (gala hua jok) as the Thais say.
Anyway, that's why I haven't written anything substantive for a long time.
So here I am, 2019... year of the cripple and bashing something out before I throw an iMac through the window to keep the neighbours entertained.
Ya hear me?
Good.
I'm just beginning.
