Mmm... muffins...

There might only be six muffins in that picture, but there are three muffin-tops behind the kitchen work surface.

Anyhoo, the exciting news from around here is that I was told by a doctor on Friday that I need to avoid concentrating on computer screens, so I'd just like to reassure any healthcare professionals who may be reading this, that I'm now following the Dame Barbara Cartland school of creative writing, and am currently dictating this blog post to Lisa, whilst dressed in pink and reclining on a chaise-longue with a couple of dogs at my feet. Although it's Toby who keeps biting my legs.

My lack of blogging over the past week is partly due to time restraints, but also down to an effort not to overdo things after my facial palsy. An effort which has spectacularly failed, according to this latest doctor. But I digress...

On Monday morning I did my first clinic since returning to work, which seemed to go ok, and only left me with mild face-ache for a couple of hours. So in the evening, we headed down to The West Quay at Brighton Marina to meet this rag-tag collection of pensioners...

Lisa wasn't happy with her own performance in that photo, and was becoming a bit of an embarrassment, so I had a slight reshuffle and replaced her with Nicky Morgan. It seems to be working for Toby.

The lady in the corner, who I'm operating with my left hand in this photo...

... is actually my aunt. She and my Mum are like Jeannette Charles and the Queen. Although I'm not saying which is which.

We don't like to see my aunt more than once a year, so the last time we got together was July 2013, when Toby looked like Billy Bunter and Lisa like Jackie Onassis. The time before was the previous August, although I was too tired to remember much about it. As those blog posts demonstrate, we usually go to see her at my parents' house, but this time, in an effort not to overdo things after my facial palsy (doctors, take note), I agreed to let my parents bring her over from St Leonards where she was staying for a few days.

As Gardners, we always thank the Lord for free food...

... so we met up at The West Quay for an evening meal and some civilised, ladylike behaviour...

Big Sis came down from Gatwick (by car, ironically) where she'd been working that day, and met us in time for dessert, while Amelie demonstrated the subtle way to wear loom bands...

She then took some flattering portraits of the family with my camera...

... including one which Lisa has given me permission to publish...

We then retired to our flat and put on videos of Amelie singing. So nobody stayed very long.

That was Monday. As for Tuesday, that began unexpectedly at 7am when I took a snap executive decision and announced that I was well enough to drive up to Horsham at short notice to cover a clinic for an (even more) unwell colleague. Having not been dressed when I made that decision, I naturally got to the hospital 45 minutes later than usual, and therefore couldn't park in the staff car park, so had to pay & display with the patients instead.

The maximum you can pay for in one go is 4 hours, meaning I had to pop out at lunchtime to buy another ticket. Which would have been fine, had I not been accosted by a patient who'd arrived two hours early for his appointment, hadn't brought his appointment letter, and refused to believe that he'd got the time wrong. Having argued politely with a face-ache for two minutes, I agreed to give up my lunch break to see him, and duly did so. By which time my pay & display ticket had expired, and I'd received a £50 fine. NHS healthcare might not be efficient, but their traffic wardens certainly are. They'd slapped a PCN on my windscreen within eight minutes of my ticket running out. I'd write them a stiff letter of appeal, but I'm not meant to be focusing on a computer screen.

Wednesday involved a lot of frustration at the Sussex Eye Hospital, while Thursday saw me doing an afternoon clinic in outpatients. Interestingly, a colleague had said to me first thing that morning that she thought my facial drop was slightly more noticeable, which is not something I was aware of, and frankly didn't believe. So I went ahead and did the clinic anyway. And had no problems whatsoever. Until half an hour after it finished.

Amelie had gone to a friend's house after school, and I'd agreed to pick her up at 6pm. Driving over there, I became acutely aware of the fact that my left eyelid was drooping down, and not opening as it should. I collected Amelie successfully, but standing outside the house, talking to her friend's Mum, I noticed I was having difficulty moving my mouth and forming my words correctly. I brought the conversation to a premature end as I was struggling to talk, and then drove Amelie down to Asda, where I'd promised to pick up a couple of things.

I spent the brief shopping trip testing my facial muscles like a lunatic, and confirming that something felt strange, but the final nail in the coffin of my recovery came as we arrived home, and were travelling up in the lift. At which point Amelie turned to me and said:

"Daddy, you look weird."

I said "What do you mean, weird?"

To which she replied, "Your face looks weird. You look down in the dumps."

Now, it goes without saying that I spend most of my life looking both weird and down in the dumps, but the fact that Amelie thought it noteworthy enough to start commenting on, rang major alarm bells.

I couldn't face (no pun intended) A&E for the third time in a month, but when my symptoms were no better on Friday morning, I rang my GP. My usual doctor was on holiday, but they gave me an appointment with another one for 11:10am. I'd already arranged to go into work late that morning, because Amelie was due to receive her school's top accolade at Friday's assembly...

That's the Catholic School's Gold Award, which is presented to a child who's already earned thirty pieces of silver.

I watched Amelie receive it with a lop-sided face, then headed off to the surgery, where I saw a doctor I've never met before. She admitted that it's quite unusual for Bell's Palsy to suddenly get worse again, whereas it's common to follow a stroke with another stroke a few weeks later, so she was very glad I'd had a CT scan to rule that out. She was confident it couldn't be a stroke... before adding that if it gets worse again in the next couple of days, I should rush straight to A&E.

So her explanation was simple: I've overdone it. She said I should never have gone back to work when I did, shouldn't have been doing clinics, and - when I explained what the rest of the job involves - shouldn't have been doing that either, because it involves focusing on a computer screen and using a lot of concentration. I did tell her that unlike a couple of weeks ago, I now feel perfectly fine in myself, but apparently that's not the point. My facial muscles have been weakened, and need total rest to recover. I've used them too much, and they've basically given up and stopped working.

Which is what I should be doing for the time being. She signed me off for the whole of next week, and said that if I'm going to stand any chance of a full recovery, I need to stop doing things, and rest my face completely. Taking more steroids now wouldn't make any difference, as they need to be used immediately after the initial attack (four weeks ago), so rest is the only medicine available.

It wasn't easy explaining all that to my boss without moving my mouth, but having vented my frustrations about this whole situation whilst looking slightly down in the mouth, they eventually managed to drag me off hospital property four hours later. I insisted on attending a team meeting on condition that I wouldn't speak. It was an arrangement which suited everyone.

So that's it. I'm now at home for at least the next week. Which is handy, as I have a million things to do...