… at last; as a straightforward overnight ankle operation turned into a fortnight of other late-discovered maladies. But I seem to be OK now; back at my (Swedish) home with help from Kajsa and from the amazing social services that ‘Stockholm Stad’ provides for poor old crocks like me. I got none of the impression of crisis that one meets in the NHS these days; a hospital fully staffed with doctors and nurses with time to discuss the travails of the NHS with me, and in one case – an Iranian nurse – to introduce me to mediaeval Persian poetry. The food was not to my taste, with the result that I’ve lost weight; but Kajsa reckons that’s not such a bad thing.

I’ve had plenty of time, just lying there, to think of new ideas for blog posts, but I’ll have to wait for that. Tomorrow we go in to have my plaster taken off, and the foot – reinforced now with bits of steel – to be X-rayed.

I’ve not yet made up my mind about yesterday’s bombing raids on Iran. I’ll probably address that first, after my hospital visit.

PS. Awfully difficult to summon a nurse when you need one. Try shouting ‘sjuksköterska’ from a sickbed.