The fact that I haven't posted simply means that there has been no progress to post about. The nurses continue to come (but twice a week now, not 3 times) and tell me the wound looks good, but the fact remains that it is still there. I can only hope that it heals in the next four weeks so my surgery can go ahead. The thought of being put on hold for another month is almost too much. When I'm feeling OK emotionally, I can remind myself that it's not cancer or something else potentially fatal; when I'm depressed, I feel like I've been sentenced to eternal house arrest. Yes, I've read, watched TV, knit, researched family history, but I am limited to my house and can't even do much within the four walls. If I could cook, or weave, or work on the garden, or work on fixing up the house, it wouldn't be so frustrating. Today D told me my neighbours across the street (whom I don't even know) asked if I was all right because the car doesn't move. I am tired of the Imp glued to my armpit trying to lick my neck, or rolled up like an armadillo in my lap. All right then. If all I can do is whinge, I should shut up.