The infection was diagnosed by a very nice French locum at my GP's surgery, and I was reminded of France's historical association with farce when the end of the stethoscope around her neck swung towards me and and made forceable contact with my incredibly tender infected finger as she swooshed past to fetch some piece of equipment or other.
(Actually, this is probably slapstick, not farce. But still, slapstick is the international language of comedy. Unfortunately. It only makes me incredibly cross. Even as a tiny child, I found it infuriating that Michael Crawford didn't just let go of the bus and come to a gentle stop against the kerb. Like, what an idiot.)
Anyway, with my directional new bandage and a fresh buffet of medication, my handwriting has progressed to the level of a promising 6-year-old, and I can now put my coat on in less than 10 minutes. Progress.