I managed to inflict a gruesome injury on myself with an umbrella. Yeah. The damned thing wouldn’t open properly, and in my attempt to force it, I embedded a strip of sharp metal into the index finger of my right hand. I didn’t feel a thing for a surprisingly long time, but the blood spurting from the grotesquely exposed inner sanctums of my favourite digit left me in little doubt that something bad had happened.
No A&E for me – but no guitar playing for awhile either. I wrapped the only suitable thing I could find – a silk handkerchief that I bought to wear at a wedding – around my butchered finger and squeezed as hard as I could for a long time before wrapping it in bandages and taping it up, then rewarded the brave patient with a glass of Scotch.
The balance sheet should have been evened out by the selling of my dilapidated Fiat Punto to a Romford wide-boy, had it not been for the vigourous handshake accompanying our transaction that re-opened my wound and caused me to shriek like a pantomime dame. There’s nothing more bruising to the male ego than shrieking like a pantomime dame in front of a bruiser from Romford.
Oh, and typing with one hand is rubbish.