He still can’t walk. He is highly, highly pissed off about it.

Awesome Dr Neighbour came round at 7.30am this morning and had a good look at Harry’s mobility, followed by a scientific prod in his hip region. Harry obligingly yelped a little, officially confirming a diagnosis of Gammy Left Hip; essentially, Harry’s joint has been yanked about and strained, but he didn’t think the damage was sinister. He estimated that Harry might start to put some weight on the leg Wednesday, and perhaps be starting to toddle again on Thursday. He’s invariably dead right about these sort of things, and we waved to him fairly happily as he drove off to his next bunch of patients, who are all considerably larger than Harry, being, as they are, an entire rugby team. 

After a few painful, unsuccessful attempts to walk, Harry has consented to crawl instead. This looked odd for a moment or two, but because he’s hardly changed facially in the 5 months he’s been walking, I adjusted pretty quickly. 

Harry felt differently. We have passed through Puzzled, Indignant, Frustrated, Tetchy, and Meltdown. We have watched an imperial shitload of TV. We have looked at every book he owns, several times. We have played anything – lego, click-clack cars, telephones – that involved sitting quite still. Mum came over for a while in order for me to go to the gym, but I seemed to weasel out somehow, and spent the time loading the dishwasher instead.

Bloody slides.

Oh, and the little boy that Harry played all day Wednesday with?

Now has Chicken Pox.

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