I Blame It On Those High Tech Hammers Myself

So on Sunday afternoon I'm putting grommets into our awning over the deck (to let rain water drain), when I miss the tool and smash my thumbnail into pulp. Self-inficted flesh wound. Hurt like stink. "Goshdarnitall," say I, or something to that effect.

Lady Mad surveys damage and says she's taking me to the local emergency ward and place me in handyman's row with the rest of the gentleman suburbanite do-it-yourself squires.

In spite of pain I laugh. Then nearly pass out. Agree a tetanus shot is prudent, as hammer is rusty from being left out in rain by kids.

Sit down in front of triage nurse. She asks whether I've been to desk number one yet. "What and where is desk one," I ask?

"There," she says, pointing to a small table with antiseptic handwashing stuff. "You have to wash your hands with antiseptic first," she says. This is clearly a leftover procedure from the SARS crisis two years ago.

"Hell, I wash my hands with blood," say I, holding aloft my freely bleeding appendage.

"Skip stage one," says she.

Doctor freezes thumb sutures away and and removes thumb nail. (Only two hours in the Emerg. from start to finish!)

My thumb is very sore. Changing dressing yesterday was excruciating. Can hardly wait until tonight's dressing change.

Tying shoelaces and buttoning shirt is damn near impossible.

Keyboarding is not comfortable. Blogging is limited.

Now I understand now why two working opposable thumbs are standard issue for homo sapiens.

I shall lie me down and heal awhile and rise and blog again!