A while ago I had a run in with a sharp pointed implement. The story is related here as a warning.
You would think it unnecessary to issue a warning against mixing football, comfy chairs, red wine and sharp knives. But it seems there is no limit to the rather unfortunate consequences which can arise when one considers the endless permutations resulting from the juxtaposition of those four variables.
Last night I settled into my favourite chair with a generous splash of red at my elbow and a steak dinner, courtesy of my lovely wife, on my lap (the dinner, not the child bride). A tough game of footy beckoned. Sometime later said wife returned to find me fast asleep with the now food-relieved plate still on my lap and the fork and (very sharp) steak knife clutched in my hand like a drowning man clutches a life preserver. As a consequence, she removed the plate and unknowingly (or was it??) left me and my eating implements to our collective fate.
At game’s end the cacophony which signals victory for the underdog, as happened in this instance, contrived to wake me up. At some point between the knife (the fork is now irrelevant to the story) being riga mortised in my hand and my waking, it had migrated down the side of the chair, nestling snugly, sharp side in as it turned out, against my side, just above the hip bone and just below the left kidney. On waking I swivelled to the side for some unknown reason and experienced a somewhat sharp (pun not intended) pain in my person. As you, dear reader, can imagine, this resulted in my awaking rapidly from my sleep induced torpor and I leapt to my feet.
On placing my hand on the area from which the eye watering pain was emanating, I felt the now located sharp implement protruding from my side. “That’s not supposed to be there” I thought, and proceeded to remove it. I can confirm that withdrawal is just as painful as entry. Fortunately it was only in far enough to not immediately fall out when I stood up as our steak knives are of the cheap variety and are therefore quite light. The upside is that I now have a cast iron excuse to not exert myself in the garden today.
As a consequence of last night’s misfortune (which wasn’t as bad as two Christmas Eves ago when 12 stitches in my arm was the end result) this morning I have been laughed at by my wife and my youngest brother. It’s a sad world when one’s adversity becomes the source of mirth for others although as the brother pointed out, his kids do it all the time. But then he has been raising them to be sociopaths.
Addendum
Another Friday night. Watching the footy. Dinner was pasta and meatballs (not steak) which has been despatched; spoon has been placed in the dishwasher before it attempted to do a King Lear on my Gloucester and no stab wounds to date. Will no doubt wake up with the red wine glass inserted in my forehead.
Visited my dermatologist yesterday to continue the ongoing crusade against the sins of the child visited on the adult (sun-baking as a 10 year old was not smart for someone with my complexion). She commented about the stab wound in my side and I told her someone has to protect the city and risk life and limb rounding up the bad guys. She didn’t believe me. My disguise remains intact.