My husband spent today in Cardiff for work. He raced home this evening to shower and suit up for a work function in London.
He somehow managed to cut the tip of his finger while shaving in a hurry. It is a very good thing he doesn’t have to shave his legs.
It was his right hand so he needed help. You know all those Hollywood movies where the heroine dabs at the hero’s cuts and scrapes, he winces and she soothes him with words of comfort? That wasn’t us. Instead it was him going “Oh shit, oh shit” and me holding up all our plasters asking, “Do you want Thomas or Peppa Pig?”
He didn’t answer, probably because he just couldn’t decide, so I used both. In the end he had about 7 highly decorative plasters wrapped around his finger. These were held in place by a couple of Wiggles ones. I have never claimed first aid was a strength. The bleeding hadn’t stopped, so it was all looking rather dodgy, but at least Peppa adds an element of cheer.
He was running late by now. I helped him with his cufflinks and tie, and he was out the door.
Just as he left, I asked where he was going.
“Will you see the Queen?”
“So you’re going to shake her hand with all those revolting, bloody novelty plasters?”
“Well, it’s not like I can make her.”
Is that a first?
This November, I’m writing one post every day as part of NaBloPoMo.