I'm slightly concerned about how many people read my last post.

Almost thirty of you read my last post, 'How important are titles, anyway?'

And I wasn't prepared for that.

I haven't covered my blog with warnings cautioning you not to follow my advice or my example yet.  Come on, people.

- I still insist on writing with two spaces after a full stop.  And I get annoyed by any books written which only have one space after a full stop.  Which is pretty much every book published in the last twenty years.

- I am writing this while listening to my entire back catalogue of Hunters & Collectors albums.  On CD.  Currently I've got 'The Jaws of Life' from 1984 blasting away.  You don't need to follow that example.

- Not only am I listening to music that the Australia Post delivery guy just cringed at, but I am doing all this with my right hand in a cast.  That's right.  I broke my hand.  And I'm a writer, FFS!  I need that hand, dammit!

- And I broke it in the stupidest way possible.  *Awkwardly changes disc to 'The Way to go Out' (1985)*  This dickhead here thought it was a good idea to punch a tram.  I mean, in my defence the tram had it's doors open, and the driver clearly saw me running up to him, waving my arms.  But he clearly thought it would be a great gag to close those doors in my face.  And the next tram wasn't expected for another twenty minutes.  Fair to say I was a bit pissed off.

- But I also suck at getting medical attention.  I hoped I'd just bruised my hand, you know.  There was no numbness and I could wiggle all my fingers.  Good signs, right?  So I iced it and tried to sleep it off.  It was still sore and swollen the next day so I called in sick and took myself to the GP.  He referred me to a radiology clinic connected to a local hospital to get an x-ray.  20 minute journey, then after half-an-hour in the clinic I got x-rayed.  The x-ray people saw I'd broken something, and told me to take those x-rays back to my doctor right away.  Which I did.   Another 20 minute journey and another wait in the doctor's waiting room.  He saw the x-ray and said I had to go to the hospital's emergency room.  Which is exactly what I wanted to avoid.  I was considering breaking my other hand against the wall of his office I was that frustrated.  I was just some loser with a sore hand, certainly nobody's definition of an emergency.  So everyone else who would come through would be seen as requiring more urgent attention than myself.  Eventually they did see me, but they couldn't use the x-rays I'd got only hours earlier, so I had to go through that whole process again. 

- Repetition frustrates me.  I hate repetitive music, the same lyrics over and over again, I hate it when people repeat what they told me only moments ago.  And I hate having to repeat myself most of all.  And everyone I spoke to, my GP, the x-ray technicians, the triage nurse, admin nurse and doctors at the hospital all asked the same questions.  Not to mention the second lot of x-ray technicians and random nurses who attended me.  And I didn't want to tell this super-embarrassing story once, let alone repeating it over and over again.  *Changes disc to 1986's 'Human Frailty'*  It's kinda funny though, about how I can't stand repetition but at the same time really love dogs.  I mean, they only know one word.

Anyway, I was considering using my fight against a 20 ton unfeeling steel monstrosity to espouse the values of picking one's fights.  But you know what?  Sod it.  Fighting isn't about winning.  Obviously losing's no fun, but if you only get involved when you can win, you're never going to take action against the injustice and oppression that surrounds us, that we (perhaps unconsciously) support by our silence and our passivity.