Wi’ ma bad knees and phobia o’ fa’in’ doon, I’m bein’ affa careful wi’ masellie.
A pal recently revealed she’s got my knees; OK on the wye doon, but they dinna get ye up again. She’s in a choir and dreads when they’re instructed to sing standin’ up because they’re halfwye through the first verse afore she maks it onto her feeties.
That’s why I’m in terror of hiterin’ and sufferin’ serious injury, like some other mates who’ve broken arms, shooders, pelvises, smashed cheeks and foreheids, all within the past few months. How the heck would I manage to shower, cook… do onything with limbs in plaster?
Sadly, I discovered last week it doesn’t have to be major injuries which can make daily life a bit of a nightmare. Friday morning, about to head oot for my daily, affa careful constitutional tootle-roon, when I spied the bin had been emptied.
Oot to take it in, spotted a couple of big bits of paper lying nearby. Bent doon to retrieve them and… those damnt knees wouldna tak me up again. (Like when I dropped my pass and fallolloped on the bussie a few weeks back.)
I just kept gan doon towards the tarmac by the concrete gatepost. Unstoppable slow motion. Which is exactly what the mannie said as he and his wife rushed to my rescue: “I could see it happen before it happened. You just went slowly doon and doon.”
The lovely couple managed to hoik me up. Horrors. Gobbets of blood on my hands. Touched the side of my heid: mair blood. Visions of A&E. Stitches. I just wanted to get inside to triage my wounds masellie. Thanking them as profusely as I was bleeding, I assured them I was OK.
Shades of Lady Macbeth
Inside, the blood continued to flow. Not – thanks-be – from the side of my heid, which had merely slithered the concrete post and was barely scratched. My main injuries were my right thumb, which was shaved of skin (and maybe even a bittie flesh – gads) doon the outside, and a hole in the knuckle of my left index finger. Red stains a’ ower the kitchen. Shades of Lady Macbeth.
Amazingly, my blood phobia allows me to deal with my ain injuries. Had that been onybody else, I’d have been in a deid swoon.
Because of my fa’in’ doon proclivities, I’ve a Santa’s sack of various dressings – wound pads, sterile wipes, you name it. Once sorted, the doorbell rang and it was the wonderful mannie who’d helped me, ready to whisk me to A&E if necessary. Too kind.
The next day, his wife brought a beautiful spray of tulips, explaining they live roon the corner. He’d been dropping her off at the bus stop when they spotted my “timber!” act.
Thanks a million, Ian and Marie. This is my herogram to you. Reflecting on how lucky I’d been, yet discovering having those two digits oot of action can be a major trial.
For example, chopping veg for my pot roast, I couldna get my bandaged fingers into latex gloves, only extra-large Marigolds. Managed to slice the loose top of a rubber finger while deein’ the carrots. And, when I wrestled the gloves aff, the thumb plaster was gone. Oh no, Mo, nae nestlin’ among the turnips under the joint in yer slow cooker?
And have you tried opening plasters when your right thumb and left index are oot of order? Canna be done.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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