No one told me about the pain, I’m sure of it, though my dear friend Kate, who accompanied me to my second pre-operative appointment, is gently suggesting that actually, yes they did. Now that the epidural has worn off, it feels like someone has tied a wide piece of elastic around the muscle at the back of my knee, attached the elastic to a slow-moving HGV, and me to a stationary object, and has set off back towards Brighton. It’s a toss up between feeling sick and dizzy from the pain or sick and dizzy from the painkillers. And there is a 30 minute window, before the drugs kick in, when I’m sick and dizzy with both. A new nurse comes on to her shift and asks me if I’ve got an anti-embolism stocking on the other leg as well, and I snap, “There isn’t another leg”. The OT and physio have been in to teach me how to get from the bed to the wheelchair and down the corridor and have gamely sat it out while I throw up into a cardboard hat. It’s not all bad though. I have avoided having to use a bedpan – an achievement only marginally less worthy of rejoicing than passing my maths O level aged 24 and getting my novel published.