So, I finally set up a proper personal blog, and get Oval Office off the blocks, and Impotent Fury was going pretty well too. Great. Big advances being made. Where next? Well, I break my finger, that’s where. In a kitchen-based accident of quite chilling stupidity, I drop a wet saucepan and instead of just letting it fall, picking it up and leaving it down to experience, I decide to go all Artur Boruc on its ass, except I failed to catch it and instead I smash my hand against the open grill door. The vast quantity of wine I had imbibed by this point worked as an anaesthetic, and I thought no more of it.
Days go by and my finger continues to hurt. My good lady wife insists that I get it looked at by a doctor, but I tell her that I have unbreakable bones, having kept my skeleton intact (the occasional and rare dislocation aside) for a run of nearly 30 years. But typing hurts like a bastard and after a few rugby posts I am decommissioned. Last Saturday, then, I decide that maybe a professional should have a look. Three X-ray photos later, the news comes back – I have a fractured metacarpal. The little finger on my right hand has an extra bend and one knuckle fewer. As though I didn’t already hate washing-up enough.
I am now typing again, under the influence of Co-codamol. It’s not quite the same as Byron writing while under the influence of opium, but it’s a start.
My name is Paul Kelly. I am approaching 30. I live in Leicester with 
You have my sympathisings.
I have endured a large number of minor injuries which have occured as a result of misuse of my toolage whilst going hard at it in my workshop.
Sometimes I try to laugh it off, others I just cry a lot and on occasion a visit to our local cottage hospital (St Judith the Charmless) has been necessary).
But it is always useful to have someone around who offers sympathy and common sense – in your case, your wife; in my case Mrs Belm (my wife).
Good luck with the finger and the writing.
Thanks for your kind words, Mr Belm. Indeed our wives are the voices of reason in an often unreasonable world. Worth all the second-hand diggers or big desk diaries we put their way.
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I liked the bit where you got hurt in a kitchen snafu.
Yeah, well, I liked when you hurt your shoulder, Boyd. Damn you to hell.
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