Wednesday, 15 July 2015

A Fallen Man

So there I was pottering on the computer, scribbling away, when I had an urgent need of the lavatory and hurried up the stairs. I was almost at the top when I fell.

Wearing only a pair of shorts, I rattled and grazed my shin. For a moment I thought I’d broken my foreleg, the pain was so bad, and I was screaming in agony. As luck would have it, it’s a language I speak fluently.
Naturally, at that time of day, Her Indoors was still in bed. I’m laid there, at death’s door and she’s snoring her head off. At length the bedroom door opened and she stepped onto the landing. She was wearing little but a knee-length nightie, which gave me a grand view of those areas usually reserved for nightmares. Trust me, when your leg is hanging off, it’s not a sight to inspire.
“Did you fall?” she asked.
“No. I’m auditioning for a part in the next production of Hamlet and I wanna get the death scene right.” I glared up, then averted my eyes again. “Of course I fell.”
“Unusual for you,” she said. “You generally fall down the stairs.”
“Only when I’m full of ale.”
She nipped back in the bedroom to check the clock. “It’s early enough,” she said when she came back.
By this time I had managed to drag myself upright, and was hobbling towards the bathroom where, after dealing with the matter which sent me scurrying there in the first place, I inspected the damage. Not too bad. Some bruising, skin stripped back, specks of blood, but nothing life-threatening, even if the pain told me otherwise.
“Get me the first aid gear, will you, and while you’re down there, bring me up one of those elastic support bandages. It’ll help keep the dressing in place.”
She went downstairs and returned a few minutes later with the box we keep all such gubbins in. I rooted through it, and could not find any lint pads.
“We’ve run out,” she said when I asked. “The dog’s eye was sore, so I used them to bathe it.”
At that point I lost it altogether. “Here I am with a busted leg, in need of treatment, and you’ve used everything on the frigging dog?” I gestured at my gammy leg. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Well,” she said, “There’s some Bob Martin’s in the cupboard.”
“What am I supposed to do with that? Crush it, soak it in water and rub it on the wound.”
“You could do. You might end up with a glossy coat and cold nose, which would make a change from a scruffy ragged jacket and a runny nose.”

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