So writing that last blog post, where I explained, at rather more length than I'd meant to, that I had hurt my hand and would not therefore be up to blogging for the next couple of days... well, that turned out to be not such a sterling idea. I've been taking it relatively easy since, letting the white blood fairies work their fancy-pants magic on me.
They've done a decent job, even. Between the fairies and a bunch of lovely emails and comments wishing me a speedy recovery: recovery! If not quite so speedy a one as I'd have liked. But I'm grateful all the same, because the hand's substantially better already... if not entirely returned to the power and the glory of its former self.
Here. Look at my wound, world:
Pitiful, isn't it? How puny it looks, now. And how dreadfully unmanned I feel to have let it affect me so...
...but it was deep, oh so deep; such that even now I've no sensation at all around the ball of my thumb. Though better that lack, however discomfiting, than the sensation I did have in my hand those first few days. But small mercies. At least I can type again, as of today. And read without aching. I am thus thankful.
Thankful, inestimably so, and rearing to get back in the saddle. See, there ain't nothing - nothing short of the inevitable, that is - fit to keep me from a good book, and these past few days, once the worst of the pain had receded, I've been gobbling up books on my tablet like nobody's business. Some good 'uns... and some bad. You'll be hearing which is which shortly.
So apologies for the disruption in service following my flipper injury, everyone, but be assured the regular programming you've come to expect from The Speculative Scotsman will be back to broadcasting as normal from tomorrow.
That is insofar as it's ever been normal, or in the least regular, really. But I digress.