The drugs have worn off and one month is beginning to feel like an pretty long time before I can ride waves again.

I’d probably be very angry with Paul Evans had I not been so incredibly high when he wrote his last blog. For the record, I was never really into real tennis… croquet was more my thing, you got better tea sandwiches.

In case you were wondering, my general anaesthesia was administered by an intravenous injection of hypnotic agents, opioids and the muscle relaxant curare, originally a poison first discovered by the American Indians which they used to paralyse their prey. But of those three I’m pretty sure it’s the opioids that produce a sense of euphoria, the one that takes you to a happy place.

Anyway to add insult to my come down, swollen wet knees and off games status, a nurse (not even in uniform) has been coming round to my flat every afternoon to jab a needle into my backside to make sure I don’t develop any blood clots from vegging on the couch all day. Best ever!

This evening the surf went all glassy and looked really fun. Weird that… Apparently it was going off at La Piste with all the pros burning other pros. Fred Compagnon was paddling into bombs on his stand-up, before stepping off to get barrelled on his alaia while both stand-up and paddle disappeared over the falls and through the lineup. Pretty new school.

Parko just took out Bells and his second consecutive title for the season (I’m all about live webcasts these days, probably tune into the Billabong XXL awards later after I’ve had my afternoon nap). Well, at least prospects are looking up for some. You guys stay strong for me yeah?