6 Dec 2009
Well, it was bound to happen...
After my previous post enthusing about the joys of rugby I've been injured. In my second match. Woot.
Now it isn't a serious injury. All I have done is break my finger. Not really a big deal when compared to some of the mind-bendingly painful and dangerous things that can happen on the pitch.
But it is a bloody embuggerance. The following is a list of some of the daily activities that are now either hilariously difficult or require a serious amount of forward planning to achieve.
I happen to be right handed. I have broken the middle finger of my right hand. My handwriting is not known for its lucidity at the best of times. Currently it looks like a half crazed widgitty grub has wallowed in ink and then, after getting smacked out of its head on a cocktail of hallucinogenic drugs, has decided to dance the rumba to happy hardcore. With a mate.
Everytime I turn the wheel I catch the splint which creates a rather amusing amount of pain to shoot across my hand. This is followed by a less amusing (although somewhat cathartic) number of expletives to pour forth from my mouth. Fun for all until you find yourself driving behind Derek the Lipreading Nutter who thinks that you have just called him a 'fucking cunting bastard'.
Moving across the school:
Those of you who read regularly know that I'm a teacher. As such I often have to move from one side of the site between lessons. Just at the point when a thousand pupils are doing the same. They all have backpacks of the size usually reserved for climbing Everest. All it needs is for someone to turn around quickly and *bang*, Mr Fandango is on the floor weeping in agony. I suspect they do it on purpose.
I love cooking ('cus I'm a new man and all that) but it is difficult to grasp anything (and patently dangerous when it's a knife) with a hand that doesn't work like it should. Of course being a resourceful type of chap I use my left hand. My left hand it transpires, is about as useful at chopping veg as using a chainsaw. On paper it should work, only it kind of doesn't.
Post fecal ablutions (or as we call it down my way 'wiping one's arse'):
I don't need to draw a diagram do I? All I'll say is that it is really difficult after 25 years of using the right hand to make a switch.
Using the computer:
I'm now like my Granddad using a computer (which in itself is a simple form of tragi-comedy). I do the 'one-finger-stab' style of typing. Using a track pad has become a battle of wills. You try to ctrl, alt, del with a finger that doesn't move. Bloody hard. I feel like a cross between Joseph Merrick and Bill Gates (without the obvious good looks or stack of cash) in that I know how to do it...I just can't.
Being a man:
We all know that men are crap when ill. Having this is worse because I feel fine. So I mope around, half-completing tasks that when fully digited I can complete in a matter of seconds. The Duchess (bless her for her patience) just rolls her eyes in pitying shame and takes over. I have been emasculated by a poxy broken finger! What has become of me?
In short having a broken finger is about as much fun as nailing your eyelids to a mountain goat during the mating season whilst simultaneously listening to Simon Cowell read the complete works of George Elliot. In Dutch.
But on the upshot I should be all better in a week so I can stop all this self-pitying nonsense and actually get on with my life.
I get the feeling I'm not the only person who'll be relieved when that happens...