After the usual poor first night in hospital, my charismatic surgeon swept in on her heels and natty trouser suit.
She whipped off the attelle, the strapping which prevents one moving the shoulder or arm, remarking this had been put on as standard procedure by her team, but now I must ‘bouger, bouger, bouger’, doing some dramatic sweeps of her arm, including the imaginary cello bowing ( my physio had said in her letter to Marion Bertrand that I needed to be able to play the cello).
She was satisfied to note that although my arm clearly felt like a sack of potatoes the familiar old knife pains, which have made movement so painful for the last year, have gone. So it was worth cutting this tendon.
She checked I did want to go to a centre de re-education – and swept out again, no doubt for another intensive day with knives, saws and hammers.