How's my what?

I visited my friend Heather in Sambro yesterday. It was like the Never Ending Journey - which means I rode that dog-dragon from the Never Ending Story there. Or I wish.

She has had her ACL replaced with the ACL of a dead person. She is basically a cyborg necromancer. Donna Harraway and Newton would be proud.

When I broke my foot two years ago, I was working in a very typical office, doing very typical secretary administrative assistant work, in Alberta. A typical office in Alberta means that wearing a pant suit makes you a very over dressed administrative phone answerer; my direct superior wore jeans and flannel and advised me that people with thick accents ought to learn to speak English before working in our country. Yup.

It is in this scenic pastoral setting that I encountered the phrase "How's your wheel?"

My what? What the fuck did you just say to me?

Oh. My foot. It's broken in 2 places and the whole thing up to my sock line is the colour of our H.R. girl's vericose veins. Thanks for asking.

Conclusion: Heather and I are cyborgs constructed from the usable (and useless) parts recovered from demolition derby Segways.