Ah – that old guiding/scouting campfire song. Oh You’ll Never Get to Heaven in a…. >insert leader’s car, bra or other word easy to rhyme with some hilarious reason to explain why…
The baked bean tin one is an old favourite – you’ll never get to heaven in a baked bean tin ‘cos a baked bean tin’s got baked beans in… or, as I posted on Monday night after I’d had an *ahem* small incident with one, cos a baked bean tin’s got finger in. (thank you dear friends for suggesting that, it won’t get out my head).
My own stupid fault. The Cheetah Keeper was volunteering to help with the recycling (long may this continue). We’d spent 7 hours at our local farm to fill inset day (yes, they’d had all of 4 days back at school, do.not.get.me.started) – I’d felt out of sorts all weekend, we got home, needed a quick tea – fish fingers and beans with assorted potato product to appease entire household.
In my fog, I completely failed to notice the ring pull on the end of the bean tin. Idiot
So I opened it with the tin opener. Must be careful with tin opener.
Must put lid of bean tin into washed out tin and squash it so Cheetah Keeper doesn’t cut himself.
OUCH! (insert other painful words of your choice, most were used)
That’ll be a large slice of little finger pouring blood then. Quickly wrap said slice in swabs (readily available in house for Cheetah Keeper’s nosebleeds) and kitchen roll. Shove kids in car. Hero husband drives me to A&E – comes back, feeds kids said baked beans (without blood but with ketchup – and saves me some for when I get home, bless). Organises best neighbour in the world ever to sit with kids, comes back to sit with me.
In the meantime I have finger quickly assessed, cleaned and temporarily dressed. Finger bleeds through dressing and looks dramatic in waiting room – which is filled with some joyfully bonkers people who are all having….brace yourselves…. a conversation with each other.
Lovely Emergency Nurse Practitioner takes off temporary dressings. I curse a tad. Lays hand out on table to see if she can stitch it. She can’t so is going to glue it. Room starts to spin. Ooops – I am turning soft in my old age. I stagger to the couch and have my finger sorted where I can’t see it.
Finger glued and steri-stripped. O to the M to the Geeeeee gluing “smarts”. Despite a large dose of painkillers beforehand. Finger strapped. Darling husband drives me home. I’m so fricking awake I don’t sleep for 38 hours and spend the next two days in manic “yes absolutely everything is utterly fine I just have a bandaged finger” mode.
This morning I’ve woken up – able to express how I feel but wrecked and shaking. Adrenaline is funny stuff – and to be honest I need to restock ready for BlogOnMOSI this weekend (I’m speaking – I’ll be the one with bandaged finger).
Thank goodness for the NHS. Thank goodness for Tetanus vaccinations. Thank goodness I managed to miss both tendons in my little finger and what’s left of the nerve. Thank goodness for surgical glue – even if it stings like nothing on earth. Thank goodness my children were so cooperative and didn’t flinch (and/or panic) at the sight of blood. In the grand scheme of things, thank goodness.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be the one with the shakes in the corner humming Oh You’ll Never Get to Heaven….