Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!
I would have written this last week but that would have meant typing with one finger.
The sleight of hand happened last Sunday which just so happened to be a bank holiday weekend. Blessed with glorious sunshine and the promise of hope. The sound of birds chirping, children playing in gardens, lawns being mowed, and barbecues being prepared as the Great British Public eased into the re-opening of the country with a gin and tonic in each hand.
I was invited over with the hounds to an evening in the garden by family members to partake in fine wine and lasagne al fresco. Lovely. Be there by 6.30.
I got myself trussed up, cos this was an event. I’d forgotten how to do that. Piecing clothing together suitable for sunny afternoons, fluffing hair and tending to eyelashes. The art of self-sensationalising seems like a lot of effort nowadays when you’ve only worn your jeans or leggings and put your hair in a bun for the last year. Anyway, I managed to get through it.
When One Door Opens…
So, I got my first mad wolfit on his lead to take to the truck because this is a one-at-a-time process since they weigh about 90lbs each and have that youthful exuberance that crazy pups have when they think they’re going somewhere exciting. No matter how much training you’ve done, the wilful wolfit is easily distracted by adventure. I opened the middle door from my kitchen to the hallway and my Tyrannosaurus-Tex took off like a lunatic taking my arm with him. My hand caught on the door with a bang and it hurt like hell. You know when you bang something really hard and it makes you feel sick as the pain sears through you? Like that.
“What a silly doggy you are!” I said. He must have heard something entirely different and a lot louder as he shot under the table to hide from me.
“Why is there blood everywhere?”
Turns out my hand caught on the metal door plate with an inch of metal sticking out from the architrave which caught my forefinger and knuckle. I ran to get kitchen towel because that’s all I could think of and yanked the first-aid kit out. I found some sort of tape and wadding and patched it up. Bloody hurt, it did. Still, fun times beckoned so I continued to get the pack in the truck which involves picking one of them up because jumping onto a tailgate is too difficult. Sheesh!
I stopped off at a friends house to collect something and then went on to the house of wine and pasta. The hounds ran around the garden whilst I cooed over the beautiful sweet-pea flowers that were growing there and how magnificent the garden was looking. British people do that sort of thing.
“Sorry I’m a bit late, I hurt my hand.”
“Would you like me to have a look and clean it up? Maybe get a better plaster on it?”
“Ummm. I think you need to go to the hospital. That needs stitches.”
I didn’t look. I find looking at wounds just promotes hysteria. “It’ll be alright.”
“Err, no. Take her to the hospital now, please.”
“Bloody hell! It’s a bank holiday, it’ll be snided!”
I got driven to the walk-in centre which is like a satellite version of the main A and E. I gave my information and the cause of the accident and got told to wait. The current waiting time was 4 hours.
That’d be the bank holiday fun up the spout then.
NHS Keithwittery and the Dropped Bollock
I got called in by a triage nurse first to assess the damage.
“Jesus, that’s nasty. I can see your knuckle. Can you call Dr Jonathon to have a look at this as this needs some stitching,” she said to the other nurse.
How to instil fear.
I had to have X-rays to make sure I hadn’t chipped the bone. Eww. I had to wait for these to be analysed by the main hospital before any stitching up could take place so I was bandaged up with a wet cloth and put back in the waiting area. As I was sitting there, bored out of my mind, more people were coming through to the main desk with ailments. The receptionist was pure evil and definitely not a people person. To be honest, I can’t say I blamed her. A chap came hobbling through and went up to her desk.
“I have a bit of an issue…”
He gave his name.
“WHAT’S THE PROBLEM?”
“Well, it’s a bit of a sensitive one…”
“PROBLEM. WHAT IS IT?”
The poor chap looked around sheepishly, a little ruddy in the face. “I have a swollen testicle.”
Ha! That took my mind off my knuckle dusting. I never did find out what happened to him. He disappeared into a room and was never seen again. Poor sod.
Shortly after that, a nurse came up to me looking all flustered. “Your X-rays are fine and we really need to get you stitched as soon as possible but we have a bit of a problem…”
“We can’t find the key to the special cupboard. We call it special, it’s the suture cupboard. We’ve just sent a message out to all staff.”
After half an hour of drama it turned out that some twollop called Keith had gone home with the key.
“I’ll take a look at it anyway,” she said. “Come through. Someone’s trying to prize the cupboard open but it’s not looking good.”
I went off to her medical room and she shook her head at my hand. “I’m sorry, this really needs proper sutures so you’ll have to go off to the main hospital and get stitched there.”
“No. Please, no. I’ve had enough. Can’t you just glue it up?”
“Hmmm. No. It won’t hold and could get infected.”
“Please! PLEEEEEEEASE don’t make me go there. I’ll take the risk. Just put loads on.”
“I’ll give it a try but if it doesn’t work you’re going to have to go.”
A nurse and a doctor set about glueing and sticking about 20 steri-strips to my wound. Then they needed to go and find some inadine pads. “Keep your hand up here and don’t move.”
When they came back I’d managed to glue my thumb to my finger which they weren’t too happy about as they had to get some solution to prize my digits apart before carrying on. After the inadine pad, a wad over the top, a padded square and a bandage followed.
“I think we need to put it in a sling. You really cannot move this and it must stay elevated.”
“If you give me a sling I’ll just take it off. I don’t like them. I’ll be good, I promise.”
“If you’re not you’ll open it up and then you’ve got problems. No driving, no getting it wet, no moving.
No life, no fun, no drugs, no wine, it’s dark…
Go back to your GP in 5 days to get it checked and re-dressed. Do you want any pain relief?”
“Nah. I’m gonna go and have a glass of wine.”
On my return, the person who looked at my hand and made me go to the hospital was in a state of shock. They said that they had tried to remain calm in order to not make me panic but when they saw the wound it looked like my hand had been unzipped and revealed a juicy pizza. They are still having flashbacks.
For ten whole days I have behaved. I’ve had it re-dressed twice and now I’m down to a pad which I can remove tomorrow so long as I’m careful.
I’m going to have a wicked scar which I will tell everyone was caused by Lucifer or by playing with wolves. There’s mileage in that.