Date: 28 March 2008 22:32:54
On the evening of Maundy Thursday, the spring cleaning bug bit me big-time and I decided to excavate the refuse heap that is my understair cupboard. I don't know if my gentle readers in countries such as Oz and the US have such features in their houses but the Brits will know this area of the house only too well. The understair cupboard is often one of the only storage places built in older houses in this country - and is also known by the name of "the glory hole" on account of the junk that accumulates there.
As I dragged objects out of this dark disordered space, I wavered between congratulating and berating myself. I berated myself for the number of unnecessary items I had managed to cram into this small space - and I congratulated myself on the way I had managed to cram so many items into such a small space!
As I was going in for the kill crouching down to reach a box at the back of the cupboard (the narrowest wedgy bit where the stairs are at their lowest - if you see what I mean) I cracked my head on a nail that was sticking out. Lots of ouching and ow-ing ensued and rubbing of the noggin. No permanent damage done (no, really, I've always been like this...). Just a little bit of blood and later a scab (which is still there; I've just checked).
Now, I know this story is really about my middle finger, and if I could beg your patience to bear with me, you will find that the finger is about to take centre stage.
So, dining room is now full of unwanted items. Maggie has promised a trip to the tip in her car on Saturday. Saturday rolls round and I start packing my rubbish in the boot of her car surrounded by boxes of her unwanted items. A passer-by says conversationally "Are you moving house?" - this will give an indication of just how much junk we had between us.
At the tip, we throw all the items into the designated skips - paper, glass, textiles, wood, cardboard, non-recyclables (into which category, gentle readers will perhaps be amazed to learn that wallpaper belongs...). Maggie enlists my help to muscle a 25kg bag of cement from the car into a skip. Somehow, mein Mittelfinger managed to get jammed between this bag and the metal edge of the skip. Once I'd retrieved my hand, my mouth went into action:
Kerensa: s&*?@!! g%^**#!!
Maggie: Oh no! What's happened?
Kerensa: My s&*?@!! finger g%^**#!!
Maggie: Quick, swear! swear! It'll make you feel better.
Kerensa: I AM s&*?@!! g%^**#** swearing!!
Dear reader, my swearing is clearly too genteel to be recognised as such, but I can't believe it.
So my previously much underrated and undervalued middle finger on my right hand has joined my recessive gene thumbs in my increasing collection of misshapen digits. The top joint swelled up and looked decidedly like a plum. By Sunday, the swelling and colour had travelled south to the middle joint and by Monday the third joint had been included.
I could not exert any pressure on it to type. On Tuesday, I was trying to touch type without using it. I managed pretty well without it, but the poor old finger got extremely cold just sticking out uselessly from the rest of my hand all day. It really needed a little hat to keep it cosy - but I was too disabled to make one.
Just in case you are still reading and want a medical bulletin: the finger is recovering now. It is grateful for all the kind wishes and attentions it has received. The top joint is still a bit tender but it is able to rejoin the typing team as you can see. It has a particularly important job to carry out as its specially assigned symbols are:
i k , < 8 *
all of which are needed more often than you would ever imagine.