AAARGHHHH My HAND!!!!
I reeled back from the kitchen sink, a mythical place unheard of for all but the most intrepid of men.
Blood sheeted down my wrist from a gigantic gash on the side of my hand.
The Good Lady came running into the kitchen at the sound of the most manly and not at all high-pitched, girly screaming.
What is it?? What is going on... UURRRK?!
She staggered back at the sight of me standing there with a bloodied limb held aloft as if I had been fisting a prize cow that was on its dabby-doos.
What happened, oh my god. Are you ok?
She grabbed a dishtowel and raced forward as if to push the filthy fetid rag at my bleeding wound.
I pulled my hand away and with a slow intake of breath, regained my mannity.
I was washing the dishes when one of the bowls cracked clean in two and my hand got cut by one of the halves.
I continued to hold my red-painted hand high as if I were a Dutch prostitute searching for a pole to swing on.
There's a lot of blood. Let me see it?
The Good Lady inched forward and I bought my hand downward gently taking the hand that was exerting pressure on it off.
As I lifted my hand the almighty gash started to spew forth blood in a mighty tsunami and I quickly slapped the pressure back on.
Oh, no. That looks right deep and nasty.
The Good Lady winced.
I tutted and shook my head.
Don't worry baby. It's nothing. It's cool.
I said attempting a shrug whilst holding my hands together in what looked like prayer.
It's not cool. It looks really serious?
The Good Lady furrowed her brow like a moose finding a frozen shit in the snow.
Oh please, baby. I'm a man. This is what we do.
I gently pulled my hand away and examined the cut. The bleeding had almost stopped. It did look a bit rippy.
That doesn't even make sense? You will have to get a stitch in that. But that means Hospital... That's a scary thought isn't it, with all this Corona nonsense going about?
She reached out and put a hand reassuringly on my shoulder.
I shrugged it off making a face like an Irishman ordering Craft Gin online.
I'm not scared.
I said, a little defensively.
Are you sure. It really does look like it needs a stitch?
She tilted her head to the side.
I shooed her away with my good hand. The other held tight to my chest.
Away with you, I will be fine. I will stick a plaster on it.
As she left the kitchen, my face fell.
I couldn't really say. But I was scared.
Scared real bad.
With an injury like this, how the hell was I supposed to parp the pork trombone?!
