One of the pleasures of trapped sciatic nerves is that there is so little that one can actually do, beyond snarling at everyone in sight, lying on the floor and reading. If you cannot walk, drive, stand, sit, sleep, blog, empty the dishwasher, pick up a heavy book, retrieve soap in the shower, lace up shoes, even twist the cap off your favourite cologne (Imperial by Guerlain) without sending lightening bolts to your ankles, there's not much left to occupy one's time but haunt the chiropractor's office, snarl and read - and I've done a lot of all three this week.
It's driving me nuts, this enforced inactivity, but at least the view of the living room from the rug (Kravet, wool and silk) is novel. I wish I could be a good patient (or even just be patient) but I'm a man. Oh, by the way, if ever you're in this state do avoid sneezing.