current mood: calm
Earlier this morning and the door to the house flies open and Mr W announces (again): "I've cut myself! Only some skin missing and it's bleeding quite badly but you can fix that up." I sigh but . . . I can, I do and I did. The trouble is Mr W is a mechanic and you get presented with a bloodied hand (usually it's the hand) which is also covered in oil and dirt. Those lovely adverts where they swab a tiny cut which is enviably clean and miniscule pales into insignificance when presented with whatever Mr W manages to do to himself! I think the worst (look away now if you have squeamish sensibilities) was when he managed to cut himself so thoroughly that he exposed the bone and was bleeding profusely at the same time. Oil, dirt, blood and bits of jagged skin everywhere and me trying to (1) clean the wound (2) re-apply bits of hanging skin (3) apply antiseptic cream plus plaster and bandage. I succeeded but my suggestion of getting some stitches in it was laughed to scorn so he was back at work before the plaster had a chance to stick.
I must be good at this nursing lark because I've been called in to assist my neighbour, my sister's husband drove her all the way here because she needed me to repair her cut and bloodied hand and Mr W manages to cut himself on a regular basis so I seems to be always patching somebody or other up so they can (a) go back to work (Mr W) (b) have a cup of tea (neighbour) or (c) faint (sister).
Why is it then if I cut myself I'm expected to sort myself out? Mr W's face resembles someone watching a horror film if he catches sight of the smallest of cuts on my hand, the neighbour coughs polity and disappears and my sister . . . well she faints at the sight of blood!
Mr W has just demolished a plate of food so is obviously suffering no ill effects from his injuries from this morning!