6 different sorts of painkiller, plus 1 anti-inflammatory. The slow, murky realisation that this may be it: a bad limp, assortment of painkillers every day, the likelihood of more surgery. Arthritis at a young age. A disability. Can he get away with this? The police seem to think so. The Public Carriage Office seem to think so.

On a positive, the physio considers it all very challenging, or, 'full on' as he says with that australian optimism trimming his words while dragging my leg down, up, down up, down, up. 'Here's to the Trams, Caroline,' he laughs, referring to the pills that I have taken 45 minutes before that enables him to do more with the knee. The problem is: my knee won't bend, or do anything. Which throws everything out. The patella is stuck. Walking is a nightmare but walk I must. My upper body has never been so worked out, so fit. Least I was never planning on physical theatre. It's funny that my show now has me talking through the dance moves as opposed to doing them... of course I never did the moonwalk or the backward flip in the first place. But who's to know? Illusion is key to the work.

At least Luka is a total joy. As is revisiting Donna Harraway's Cyborgs, Coyotes and Dogs: A Kinship of Feminist Figurations. As is painkiller-popping for the Tower Bridge show at the end of the month. I guess I am a junkie!