It turns out that drugs make you hallucinate. It’s probably evidence of a very sheltered life that I’m only discovering this as I turn 30 — especially since I’m now only on Ibuprofen and Paracetamol. But I woke up not too long after drifting off last night convinced that I was being squashed and suffocated between two mattresses and not allowed to speak. Then this morning my challenge was to cross shark-infested seas on a fast-deflating lilo in the dead of night, somewhere off the coast of northeast Brazil. Actually, I was probably just dreaming, but painkillers definitely give you nightmares.

After a full 48 hours of festering in my own juices, I decided it was about time I muster up the courage for a bath, which was mildly challenging but I managed to successfully negotiate myself back into my PJs before drifting off to sleep again until lunchtime. This reminds me of the time in 2001 when I took travel-sickness pills for an entire week on a boat trip down the Amazon, awaking briefly only 3 times a day to the drill-sergeant-style whistle to eat a stale cracker and some river-water-cooked chicken’s-feet stew before falling back asleep as the smell of the 79 other passengers’ dysentery wafted gently from under the door of the boat’s one wooden toilet.

The food at Hotel Pricey Palace isn’t half as good as that at Facebook Dublin HQ but, then again, the likes of boiled eggs with toast soldiers and Welsh rarebit are not to be sniffed at. I think my Dad is using my recent medical downturn as an excuse to circumvent any previous dietary advice.

I noticed my hospital armband has one of those little scanner icon things. Am I supposed to scan this on my iPhone? What do I win if I do so?

I was supposed to be running a 5-mile race in Phoenix Park last Saturday, the first in the Dublin Marathon race series. So a belated special thanks and congratulations to Weronika for taking my race number and running it for me in a sparkling 45 minutes. Any volunteers to run the 10km on 22nd July for me? It’s a shame I can’t do any of these runs because I’m bound to get fat after all the biscuits and sweets people have bought me, like these beauts I received in the post today from the wonderful Sarah in gay Paris:

The postman woke me up at the crack of dawn today with a delivery of my Paralympics tickets. I’m so glad I bought these, because I’m full of admiration for anyone who can do any kind of sport with any kind of disability. I know I am only missing a little bit of a left boob and will probably be missing a head of hair come September-time, but it just makes me all the more proud of those who make the most out of whatever they’ve got and go out there and kick ass.

Finally, I was made to wear these fetching tights during my operation to aid the circulation and ward off the likes of deep vein thrombosis. I think being 29 puts me in a fairly low-risk category, but nevertheless I did my leg exercises on Saturday evening with gusto. BFF Helen said I wasn’t allowed to post this pic because I look like a porn star, but I have since vetted it for Facebook nudity standards and determined that it is allowed on the site, so here it is.