After my first week of exercises to mobilise my broken wrist, I return to the physiotherapist.
He measures the angles I can achieve - forward, back, inwards, outwards.
My results are announced - an improvement of about twelve degrees in each direction.
This, he declares, is remarkable progress.
I beam with pride at my achievement.
But at the next visit, he is less impressed. My forearm rotations have progressed well, but the forward and back movements have only increased by one degree.
One lousy degree? After a whole week of painful exercises, four times a day?
As punishment, I must now bend my wrist more forcibly, holding for fifteen seconds instead of ten.
He shows me how. I breathe deeply and whisper that the pain is eye-watering.
"Does that mean you're crying? Good", he says, flashing his charming smile.
Our cabaret show Kabarett is held on two consecutive weekends. The venue gives us a technical rehearsal on the Thursday morning before the first show. This gives us two hours to work with Matt, the sound and lighting technician, to select the lighting for each scene, and to inform him of any sound effects and anything else we require. Our excellent pianist, Ed, joins the three of us for this rehearsal.
My piece, "A French Romance" is about twenty minutes long, consisting of four songs interspersed with a story. In addition to the general lighting effects, two things get added as a result of the tech rehearsal. The first relates to my description of a "hotel from hell" where a bright streetlight shines into the room through a curtainless window. At this point Matt switches on a bright light that shines right in my eyes. It produces a terrific reflex action - my arm goes up to block the light, and I grimace and groan. No acting is required. The second applies to the song "Once Upon A Summertime" which illustrates my fantasy of a romance in Paris. In the middle of the song I sing a verse in French, and at that point Ed hits a button on his keyboard which produces a piano accordion effect. It sounds so funny, we all fall about laughing.
I decide to leave the brace off my arm for the duration of the show, as it would distract the audience from the story. But I keep the microphone on its stand, because I don't feel confident of lifting it out or passing it from one hand to the other. The wrist works well enough to express some simple gestures, but afterwards, a friend says it looked a bit sore.
The room is full for both shows. I feel reasonably pleased with my piece.
I'm glad to have had this performance opportunity; that my injury didn't cause me to cancel. It's important to perform regularly, to maintain your confidence on stage. Collaborating with other artists has proved to be an excellent way to put a show together and to fill the room.
But a month after surgery, my wrist is still very stiff and swollen. It doesn't move much at all. The hand looks like something that belongs to a shop mannequin. I'm not driving yet, and suspect I won't be for a while.
I seriously need some wrist action.
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