Miss Prism Regrets

she has been unable to post this month, having been first on crutches with a torn calf muscle, and latterly in hospital with a leg full of jam.
As Ben Goldacre puts it, the idea that ill-health is a moral failing is the bollocks du jour. So pernicious is said B.d.J. that when the ultrasound technician showed me the images of my dramatically inert femoral vein, my reaction was one part fear, two parts academic interest and five parts "Excuse me, there is some error! I eat vegetables and take regular exercise and therefore expect, and deserve, perfect health. I wish to lodge an appeal!"
Due to the thoughtless non-existence of the vascular ombudsman, however, no such appeals procedure was in place, so they kept me on the ward for four days, alternately sticking pins in me and feeding me rat poison, during which time I read five Georgette Heyer books from the ward library, discovered empirically that the best food option is usually the Afro-Caribbean Ethnic Meal, and wondered at the startling rarity with which nurses commit murder.
My immediate future involves propping my feet up, interminable blood tests, and very likely two years of sexy compression stockings. Oo yeah.