So, this was the plan. Last Monday: operation; Tuesday: out of bed and walking the ward; Wednesday: home; Thursday: off painkillers; Friday: graduate from the zimmer frame to a walking stick; Saturday: start building up from 300-metre to 1000-metre walks in the streets. By Monday (yesterday, when this is published), I expected to be able to keep up with Tao and to be completely ready for a wonderful five-and-a-half weeks.

First of all, wipe that smug, knowing, pitying smile off your face. I’m right alongside Harry and Megan on this: It’s my body and my truth and you simply can’t deny it. I can remember exactly how things went 9 years ago, and even though I am now 9 years older and 6 kilos heavier, I have absolutely no intention of letting that make the slightest difference.

Next, I hope you will understand that I am not in any kind of state to write a 1500-word post, let alone one that is a light, frothy entertainment. I can’t handle that, and I’m not going to allow myself to break down in public (the only other realistic option), so you’ll just have to accept my apology. Sorry, but… no post this week, because I have a very sorry butt.

Not a good enough excuse? Well, perhaps you’ll not be quite so judgmental, and at least first let me explain why I can’t come up with the goods this week.

I don’t know what kind of a week you had, and, frankly, I don’t care, because unless you’re married to me, it was quite conceivably better than mine.

First of all, as mentioned last week, my op was inexplicably delayed two days, setting my whole timetable back before it even started. On Wednesday, I was taken down fairly early. The anaesthesiologist had planned to give me a very light general that would, he assured me, be just enough to give delightful dreams of running as a 12-year-old through fields of corn. Instead, it turned out to be just enough to make me vomit, so I ended up hearing every detail of the op.

This actually didn’t bother me. Although some people find it offensive to hear the operating team joking around and mocking each other and feel insulted that they are not taking the whole thing seriously, I actually find it immensely reassuring. As long as things are jogging along in a jokey atmosphere, I am persuaded that there is nothing to worry about. The last thing I want to hear is the surgeon screaming: ‘Will you all shut up? I think we’re losing him.’

My experience back on the ward on the first day was far different from my memory of my left hip. I’m sure that I was in considerably more pain, far less mobile, and, on the whole, not my usual sunny self. Strangely, I did not find Bernice’s assurance that I was kidding myself about the previous experience at all comforting, and, piecing together the events of last Wednesday, I am fairly convinced I was not the happy bunny that I usually am. It is fortunate that Esther was with us throughout Monday, so that they could console each other about my black mood.

The hospital physiotherapist shed light on this experience. He took me to the back staircase of the ward on Friday morning, to teach me how to negotiate stairs. This is the last obstacle that a patient has to get over before being released. I remarked that the stairs hadn’t changed in 9 years, and then reflected on how strange it was that I remembered the staircase vividly, but I did not remember the pain at all. His reply was: “Have you got any children? Then ask your wife what the pain is like.” I immediately realized how true this was. It is probably a good thing that the body is usually very good at forgetting the experience of pain.

By the time we left the hospital at noon on Friday, the progress I had made in manoeuverability and muscle-strength was very encouraging. Since then, my time at home has been spent working out the logistics of keeping equipment near at hand in a two-storey house, while trying to keep the number of times a day that I say to Bernice: ‘Could you possibly fetch my…?’ down to below 500. The problem is that our staircase at homs is narrower than the one in the hospital, and I cannot use the zimmer frame on the stairs. I am therefore using a stick and the railing, which means that I arrive upstairs while the frame is downstairs, or vice versa.

I think the solution is to hire two zimmer frames and two mechanical grabs from Yad Sarah, rather than one, although Bernice assures me this would simply result in my being downstairs while both zimmer frames were upstairs. (She speaks as the daughter of a man who single-handedly guaranteed the continued economic viability of the British umbrella industry for a couple of decades by building up a stock of several dozen umbrellas at work while having none at home.)

As I write this, it is Sunday noon. On Shabbat, I walked to the children’s playground 150 metres from our house…and back. This at least means that I will be able to go on some outings with Tao. I’ve also worked out strategies for independent showering and dressing, so that I feel less of a burden. This morning I prepared our usual breakfast. Even though it took three times as long as usual, and left me totally exhausted, I felt very empowered, a bit like SuperWetRag. So, we are getting there.

And, lo and behold, my non-post is over 1000 words long. Small but beautifully formed, as they say.

Next week should bring lots of news of the Portuguese family, who arrive early tomorrow. Meanwhile, they appear to have found a smart way of reducing the cost of travel.

They have also just produced a new video on the YouTube channel, which gives a detailed account of one of their major projects, You can view it (and also like, subscribe and comment), here.