The Best a Man can get

I am currently stuck in the UK for a period of enforced R&R - recuperation and rehabilitation - following a hip replacement, and cabin fever is starting to set in.

My day seems to consist of popping pain killers, injecting my stomach to prevent DVT and nostalgically tucking into Fray Bentos Steak & Kidney pies whilst hopping around on crutches in a shell suit and a rather elegant pair of surgical stockings. The only respite from the confines of my padded cell is when a sympathetic neighbour takes me to the local Tescos and I race through the aisles on the complimentary mobility scooter, terrorizing other shoppers.

I also have to report that I have joined the ranks of young mothers, students and the unemployed in becoming addicted to day-time TV. Waking up to Holly Willoughby may be no bad thing but I am embarrassed to admit that I have become a dab hand at solving 9 letter anagrams in less than 30 seconds and spotting a bargain at an antiques fair. Moreover I now know how to turn my attic into cash in order to fund the wedding dress of my teenage gypsy bride and the DNA test of my allegedly illegitimate child.

And, perhaps worst of all, I have recently found myself reciting the straplines of various advertisements under my breath. Is this really the best a man can get?