Friday, November 17, 2006
Definition of Pain - Update
Well, this appears to be an ongoing section of the blog as I now wish to add a new way of inflicting excruciating agony on oneself in the simple practice of going about one’s daily chores.
Today I experienced a new one for me. And it involves something as innocuous as a dishwasher and a standard ten-inch dinner plate. Seemingly innocent bystanders in the battle to clear up after dinner, but combined, deadly assassins about one’s person in a manner that seems just so obvious after the event, The but of course hindsight’s 20-20 is a wonderful thing…….
So, there I am tidying up after a bountiful repast. We had a lovely chicken breast stuffed with goats cheese and sundried tomatoes, wrapped in Parma ham and pan fried till crispy, served with wilted spinach, oven roasted rosemary scented potatoes and mushrooms in a garlic, herb and crème fraiche sauce. But you don’t want to know that do you? Perhaps the wine then? A lovely 2003 Old Well Cabernet Malbec from Australia with a hint of blackberry and a definite mocha flavour to the finish? No? So no point in mentioning the apple crumble then, made with Bramley apples the size of your head* from our very own, organically maintained apple tree? Oh dear, you really are a bunch of rubberneckers aren’t you?
So you’ve gathered that we’ve eaten well, drunk well, and are in a hurry to tidy up and get in front of the TV for the rest of the night. I’m doing the dishwasher but not really concentrating as I’m trying to hear the opening bars to the theme tune from Prime Suspect in order to not miss the beginning of the show. And the bloody plate I’m holding just doesn’t want to go into the final space in the dishwasher. I can hear Dame Helen Mirren smoking a fag and know I need to hurry if I’m not to miss out on a "Guv’ner, Guv’ner, Guv’ner" or "you’re nicked you slag". So I shove the plate down but as I do so my right hand slips off it and crashes into the cutlery holder in the centre of the dishwasher. The middle knuckle of my right index finger is lucky enough to make contact with, as it turns out, a rather ironically named boning knife. This, as you can no doubt imagine, does exactly what it says on the tin, and slices through tender the tender flesh right to the bone.
This hurts. Perhaps surprisingly though, not as much as what happens next. In this technologically advanced 21st century utopia we are living in, common and garden plasters are just not de riguer anymore darling. Oh no. The best solution these days to a two inch long gash all the way through your flesh only stopping at the bone is not an Elastoplast fabric or, for those with more money than sense a Band Aid Clear Gel, but an all new, space age, skin friendly spray on plaster. And it hurts like fuck. Plunging my severed digit into pure bleach and drying it off with a sandpaper-coated towel would surely have hurt less. As my lovely wife directs what feels like an acid filled flame thrower at my injured finger I wonder if years spent being a pussy at removing stuck-on plasters from relatively minor wounds has lead to this ultimate torture. As the blood oozing from the surgically precise wound is turned to jelly by the spray, I wonder if the removal of a handful of hairs after an hour of soaking in a warm bath would be preferable to this. Well, for once you’d be right. But we’re not over yet.
See, these new fangled gadgets are not always as clever as the make out to be. Aside from the pain I’m in, there’s a caveat on the spray can that says, firstly, that it might sting a bit (no shit sherlock!) and secondly, and perhaps in the circumstances more importantly, that it is not suitable for deep, secreting wounds.
And so we come to the next morning. My knuckle is covered in a sort of semi-transparent goo formed from blood and spray plaster. I run it under the tap to try and get a sit-rep on the injury. Wow!! It looks fine, just a hairline where the injury was, brilliant, the miracles of modern science etc… And here is where the painful bit comes in. I go to show my wife what a good job the plaster has done and flex my finger to show what a brilliant job it has done. Unfortunately, it is at this point that 21st century science decides to prove itself to be complete bunkum and the cut splits open again ejecting both a fountain of blood from the wound and strangled scream from the man who’s just felt the sticky rendering of a glued-together cut reopening……..
Regular Band Aid anyone……….?
*Unless you are John Merrick.
Today I experienced a new one for me. And it involves something as innocuous as a dishwasher and a standard ten-inch dinner plate. Seemingly innocent bystanders in the battle to clear up after dinner, but combined, deadly assassins about one’s person in a manner that seems just so obvious after the event, The but of course hindsight’s 20-20 is a wonderful thing…….
So, there I am tidying up after a bountiful repast. We had a lovely chicken breast stuffed with goats cheese and sundried tomatoes, wrapped in Parma ham and pan fried till crispy, served with wilted spinach, oven roasted rosemary scented potatoes and mushrooms in a garlic, herb and crème fraiche sauce. But you don’t want to know that do you? Perhaps the wine then? A lovely 2003 Old Well Cabernet Malbec from Australia with a hint of blackberry and a definite mocha flavour to the finish? No? So no point in mentioning the apple crumble then, made with Bramley apples the size of your head* from our very own, organically maintained apple tree? Oh dear, you really are a bunch of rubberneckers aren’t you?
So you’ve gathered that we’ve eaten well, drunk well, and are in a hurry to tidy up and get in front of the TV for the rest of the night. I’m doing the dishwasher but not really concentrating as I’m trying to hear the opening bars to the theme tune from Prime Suspect in order to not miss the beginning of the show. And the bloody plate I’m holding just doesn’t want to go into the final space in the dishwasher. I can hear Dame Helen Mirren smoking a fag and know I need to hurry if I’m not to miss out on a "Guv’ner, Guv’ner, Guv’ner" or "you’re nicked you slag". So I shove the plate down but as I do so my right hand slips off it and crashes into the cutlery holder in the centre of the dishwasher. The middle knuckle of my right index finger is lucky enough to make contact with, as it turns out, a rather ironically named boning knife. This, as you can no doubt imagine, does exactly what it says on the tin, and slices through tender the tender flesh right to the bone.
This hurts. Perhaps surprisingly though, not as much as what happens next. In this technologically advanced 21st century utopia we are living in, common and garden plasters are just not de riguer anymore darling. Oh no. The best solution these days to a two inch long gash all the way through your flesh only stopping at the bone is not an Elastoplast fabric or, for those with more money than sense a Band Aid Clear Gel, but an all new, space age, skin friendly spray on plaster. And it hurts like fuck. Plunging my severed digit into pure bleach and drying it off with a sandpaper-coated towel would surely have hurt less. As my lovely wife directs what feels like an acid filled flame thrower at my injured finger I wonder if years spent being a pussy at removing stuck-on plasters from relatively minor wounds has lead to this ultimate torture. As the blood oozing from the surgically precise wound is turned to jelly by the spray, I wonder if the removal of a handful of hairs after an hour of soaking in a warm bath would be preferable to this. Well, for once you’d be right. But we’re not over yet.
See, these new fangled gadgets are not always as clever as the make out to be. Aside from the pain I’m in, there’s a caveat on the spray can that says, firstly, that it might sting a bit (no shit sherlock!) and secondly, and perhaps in the circumstances more importantly, that it is not suitable for deep, secreting wounds.
And so we come to the next morning. My knuckle is covered in a sort of semi-transparent goo formed from blood and spray plaster. I run it under the tap to try and get a sit-rep on the injury. Wow!! It looks fine, just a hairline where the injury was, brilliant, the miracles of modern science etc… And here is where the painful bit comes in. I go to show my wife what a good job the plaster has done and flex my finger to show what a brilliant job it has done. Unfortunately, it is at this point that 21st century science decides to prove itself to be complete bunkum and the cut splits open again ejecting both a fountain of blood from the wound and strangled scream from the man who’s just felt the sticky rendering of a glued-together cut reopening……..
Regular Band Aid anyone……….?
*Unless you are John Merrick.
# posted by Bucko! @ 12:09 PM 
