23rd July 2021
Oh bloody hell, what is it with me?
So, there I was in the kitchen, making a nice egg sandwich for my lunch when I spotted a pot of honey, gently warming on the Aga.
“Mmm.” I thought. “Have some of that!”
I broke off a piece of bread, spread some honey on it and popped it in. It was a weird taste, not like any honey I’d tasted before. I decided not to have any more.
After finishing my wonderful egg sandwich I mentioned the weird honey to my wife. It turned out it wasn’t honey after all, it was leg wax. Eeeww!
Now, as much as I’d love to tell you this is a first for me, I can’t. When I was a young man I spotted a pineapple flavoured thing on the side in the kitchen which I took to be some kind of food. I made my sandwiches and went off to work. It was an awful sandwich but I was hungry so ate a good amount. When I got home I told my girlfriend and she told me I’d eaten her Body Shop bath balls. Never again I promised myself.
Then many years later I was at my in-laws house. Like a good boy, I cleaned my teeth before I went to bed but it was dark. Unfortunately I managed to clean my teeth with my father-in-law’s athlete’s foot creme.
What next I wonder?
18th September 2020
I recently read an article about star signs, and rather bizarrely, mine has just changed. This weird fact got my brain ticking and before I knew it, the clock had wound back thirty years to my first day at college. There I was, keen as mustard, sitting in a circle of about twenty young computer nerds, on the floor of a classroom in the Brighton College of Technology. I should have been paying attention but I was never very good at that, instead, I found myself examining a poster on the wall about how the COBOL programming language was the future of business computing.
Deep in my little world, I was completely unaware of what was going on around me, so when the chap next to me said “Leo” and everyone stared at me, I rather logically said “Oh, err .. Sagittarius”. It turned out that Leo was the chap’s name. And that was how I got my nickname, Sag.
That name stuck with me for many years so you can imagine how strange it was when I read that I was no longer a Sagittarian. Apparently, I’m now something called Ophiuchus, what the fuck is that? Well, from what I can gather from the Internet, it’s a naked man with a large snake. Hmm, perhaps it’s not such a bad change after all. 😉
23rd December 2019
Today I went shopping for veggie bacon. I failed to find veggie bacon in the Co-Op, I failed to find veggie bacon in Waitrose and I failed to find veggie bacon in ASDA. So I went to Tesco. And I had a great time.
When I eventually found the veggie section, I found a young lady already there poking around so I asked her
“I don’t suppose you know if there’s any veggie bacon in there do you?”
She looked at me, told me I was in the wrong place and grabbed my hand.
“Follow me,” she instructed.
It sounded like a question but her vice like grip left no other options open.
I watched her as she dragged me from isle five to isle three.
She had shaved hair, tight leggings and big, solid looking shoes. I was a little bit scared but in a good way. I tried really hard not to categorise her.
When we reached the right place in isle three (the Quorn section) she rummaged through the goods but (shock horror) there was no veggie bacon.
“Stay here,” she said, as she darted off to find a helper. A few minutes later she returned.
It was bad news, Tesco had sold out too. I thanked her and did the rest of my shopping.
When I’d got everything on my list (with the exception of the veggie bacon, of course) I found a checkout and loaded my stuff onto the conveyor belt. There was a little gap of a few inches left on the belt so when another lady joined the queue behind me, I pointed to the gap and said
“I rather kindly saved you some space.”
She was a funny lady and we had a good laugh about shopping at this time of year and this and that. I then told her about the lady who bent over backwards to help me find the veggie bacon. Then, incredibly, who should appear. Ms. Veggie Bacon herself. I did the introductions.
“Ms. Veggie Bacon, I’d like you to meet Ms. Joined The Queue Behind Me. And Ms. Joined The Queue Behind Me, I’d like you to meet Ms. Veggie Bacon.”
“Oh my God!” said Ms. Veggie Bacon. “You make friends so quickly.”
I told her that I was normally a bit of a grumpy old bastard but I was high on Christmas. She leaned towards me and said
“As you’ve probably guessed, you’re not my type, so to speak, but if you were … Boy would you be in danger!”
Me, Ms. Veggie Bacon, Ms. Joined The Queue Behind Me and Ms. Checkout lady all pissed ourselves laughing.
Tesco, it’s good for the soul.
20th June 2019
I quite like my wife most of the time but yesterday she banned me from talking about sprockets completely. As I’m sure you can imagine, the story starts some time ago with me waking up my lovely lady (sometimes called the “oh patient one”) with a nice cup of Earl Grey at the crack of dawn and jabbering on about the front and rear sprockets of my 2006 Honda Transalp.
“I think I may have gone a little too far in changing my gearing.” I said, pushing for a conversation. I waited for a response. Nothing.
“I only gained one tooth at the front but I dropped nine from the rear. Nine I tell you!”
I was convinced that would do it but the silence continued.
As my wife peeled her eyes open from the depths of her slumber I took advantage and dived in.
“It’s incredible, I’ve dropped over 2500 rpm at 70 mph.”
Silence. I waited a little longer in case she was trying to work out how to respond to such an incredible drop in rpm but she looked at me with a combination of contempt, desperation and sadness”
“Most wives would be ecstatic to have me hovering over them at this hour talking about the ins and out of motorcycle gearing.”
I waited for the inevitable and was not disappointed.
I’m not sure if my punishment is not being able to talk about sprockets at that hour or the numerous conversations that we now have about the Latin names of all the flora and fauna in our gardens.
Live long and prosper my friends.
13th June 2019
When I was a young Richard Georgiou of around eighteen I didn’t have many friends, in fact, to be completely honest I’m not sure I actually had ‘any’ friends. As such when I was invited to go bowling I went along. Not wanting to make a complete fool of myself I was on my best behaviour. The bowling went well, then it was to the bar for drinks.
The chap at the front ordered a gin and tonic, the girl behind him had the same, next was a Bacardi and Coke, then a rum and Coke. Being new to this socialising thing and not being a drinker I had no idea what to have. The only drink I’d had and enjoyed was Baileys.
“I’ll have a Baileys and Coke please.” I said doing my best to look confident and cool.
The barman looked at me and said
“What, in the same glass?”
At this point I knew I’d made a big mistake but everyone was looking at me and I felt unable to back down.
“Of course in the same glass.”
The barman raised his eyebrows, then poured my drink. As the Coke was added the whole substance fizzed madly then set into a rather nasty looking brown clot.
Knowing that everyone was looking at me I confidently took my drink. I lifted it to my mouth but when I tipped it up nothing happened. It was time to admit defeat. I tipped the glass upside down but the substance was solid and remained in the glass.
The barman noticed that I was struggling and asked
“Would you like a spoon with that.”
Needless to say I gained no friends that night.
28th February 2019
The combination of kids behaving badly and the subsequent parental humiliation is something I find enormously entertaining and, living near Hailsham, there’s ample opportunity for me to indulge in this passion. The events of the other day make a perfect example.
I’d parked my car in the Asda car park and was walking towards the steps (where youngsters can often be found spitting on the heads of unsuspecting shoppers) when I heard an argument underway. From what I could tell, the participants were a boy of about five and his young mother. A girl of around three was also present and was screaming loudly.
“Did you hit her?” shouted the young mother.
The boy looked at the ground and said nothing.
“She’s your little sister for fucks sake!”
I put my pound coin into the slot to release my trolley and listened on with interest.
“You can’t just hit people whenever you feel like it!” she continued.
“Why did you hit her?”
The boy continued staring at the floor in silence. The mother then poked him and repeated herself slowly and deliberately.
“Why. Did. You. Hit. Her?”
By this time I had my trolley and was walking past them when the little boy said rather loudly
“She’s a fucking cunt!”
As if this was not beautiful enough, he put such energy and vigour into that last word that he turned his basic version of the English language into a line of pure art.
As much as I wanted to just smirk and walk on past I couldn’t help myself and let out a little snigger. As you can imagine the young mother was none too impressed but luckily had her hands full for the time being.
Once round the corner I stopped and had a bloody good chuckle. I surreptitiously looked back and checked that the little boy wasn’t being murdered, he wasn’t but boy was he in the shit.
After such an incredible experience I assumed that my trip to Asda had already given me all it had to give when I found myself walking towards the cooked chicken pieces machine with a woman walking beside me. Her child of about three was waddling in front of us and his pants were falling down revealing the crack of his bottom.
“James, pull your pants up darling.” His mother said.
I’m not sure if James didn’t hear his Mum or if he deliberately ignored her but either way, he didn’t pull his pants up, instead he continued walking and his pants continued getting lower and lower. His Mum tried again.
“James. Pull your pants up love.” She said.
James and his butt-crack continued on down isle three oblivious to his mother’s requests.
At this point I couldn’t help myself and leant over to his Mum.
“I think he’s going to be a builder” I said with a smile.
His mother laughed and went into some grotesque detail about how she’s trying to potty train him. She lost me at the word “Poopy”.
Hailsham, never a dull moment.
24th September 2018
Sometimes, my incredible stupidity astounds even me. I’ve been lost in various locations throughout the world but today, well last night, I actually managed to get lost in my own bedroom.
It all started at about two o’clock in the morning when I decided it was time for a wee. I quietly climbed out of bed being careful not to wake my loveliness. I gingerly shuffled past the end of the bed, turned left and continued for a few feet, then turned right and held out my hand where it was met by my wife’s clothing rail as expected. I ducked my head down to avoid the low beam and stepped into the bathroom. I switched on the light and had my wee.
With my bathroom visit complete I switched off the light, ducked my head under the low beam and returned to the bedroom. I walked forward for a few feet then headed left a bit. I swept my hand out in front of me expecting to find the bed but there was nothing. I continued forward a little more expecting to bump into the bed but instead I bumped into a wall. ‘That’s strange’ I thought. I must have missed the bed and bumped into the wall at the far end of the room. I turned right and held my hand out in from of me expecting to find my bed. Strangely, I touched a window.
“Bloody hell” I whispered in the darkness.
I had no idea where I was or which way I was pointing. The craziness of the situation then hit me.
“I’m lost in my own bedroom” I said sniggering.
It was at this point that I got a fit of the giggles. This was not appreciated by my wife.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she said, not happy about being woken from her slumber.
“I’m completely fucking lost” I said in between fits of laughter.
This is when I realised that I had all the information I needed to triangulate my exact position. I used the position of the window and the direction of the bollocking to work out that I was actually on the wrong side of the room. I quickly relocated to my side and slipped back into bed.
It took a few more minutes for my fit of the giggles to pass and a few more minutes after that for the bollockings to stop.
Just another moment in the day of an idiot.
By Richard Georgiou.
10th January 2018
15:21, Tesco, the washing isle.
“Scourers” I said muttering under my breath “Where the bloody hell are the scourers?”
After walking up and down the aisle for twenty minutes looking for the bloody things whilst muttering things like “life?” and “why don’t you just take me?” I decided to admit defeat and ask for help.
The first lady tried but failed, she was polite so I let her off. The second lady wasn’t so lucky.
“Excuse me, I don’t suppose you sell scourers do you?” I asked.
“Aisle 12.” she said without raising her eyes from her very important pad.
“Ah, thank you” I said with a smile “but I’ve been walking up and down aisle 12 for the last 20 minutes and I’ve not been able to find them.”
She continued looking at her very important pad. I coughed but she didn’t notice. She frowned, probably at a particularly important piece of information she just read on her very important pad.
“I suppose it would be completely out of the question for you to join me in aisle 12 what with you working on that very important pad and all.” I said. I waited for her to look up.
When she did eventually look at me I gave her my best smile, put my hand forward and said
The stomping sound that came from her happy feet made me smile more and by the time we got to aisle 12 I was positively brimming.
“What is it that you’re looking for exactly?” She said coming round to the fact that she wasn’t easily going to be able to get rid of me.
“They’re called scourers, they’re green and they’re rough and you use them to scrub the wife’s cooking off the dinner service, if you know what I mean.” I smiled but she wasn’t impressed.
By this time we’d gained a small male audience who, whilst pretending not to listen, listened intently.
She picked up a scourer that was attached to a sponge stick and held it out toward me.
“I just want a scourer, I don’t want it attached to a sponge stick, I don’t want it with aloe vera and I don’t want it with boswelox. I just want a scourer.”
The three members of our audience chuckled audibly which pissed off my happy helper no end.
I glanced over at them and shrugged as my happy helper stomped off back to her very important pad.
Looks like I’ll be picking off the stubborn bits tonight with my finger nails.
Love and peace
6th December 2017
I have a story / confession about Baileys that some of you might be interested in. My parents always had a bottle of Baileys in the drinks cabinet when I was a child .. and I liked Baileys as did my sister Sarah. One evening, during a particularly rampant midnight feast, we broke off from raiding the fridge and frivolously directed our efforts towards the drinks cabinet; the bottle of Baileys being our target. We had a few snifters my sister and I and before long we noticed the level had halved. We both agreed that we needed a plan of action. Sarah, being the brighter (and by far the most devious) member of this dastardly duo, came up with the plan, its genius was in its simplicity. The missing Baileys would simply be replaced by milk. We had ample milk and, being a substance that was not ‘parent monitored’, we were on to a winner. Milk duly replaced the missing Baileys and days turned into weeks which themselves turned into months. It wasn’t until Christmas that we had our first doubts. It was Christmas morning and I distinctly remember Dad attempting to pour a small glass of Baileys, my sister and I looked on in horror as the bottle was tipped up but the unsavoury clot of rancid milk and Baileys refused to budge. After some seriously tense moments the bottle was deemed unfit for Human consumption and disposed of with the rest of the Christmas unsavouries, my sister and I had successfully completed our ‘step one in getting away with murder’ course. Result!
5th December 2017
So, there I was in the kitchen paying rather too much attention to my brandy whilst reading yet another book about an adventure on some vintage Triumph motorcycle when I remembered my poor, hard done by wife. She was upstairs on my sewing machine sewing an N onto the back of some outfit she’d created.
“How’s your bobbin my darling?” I shouted “Is it in need of some Georgiou attention” I enquired.
Her reply was fast and firm. It seems my services are surplus to requirements.
4th December 2017
“Err… wif, I think I might have just accidentally eaten the last mince pie. If you could buy some more it would help with my guilt. Husb xxx”
30th November 2017
“We all plod through life wishing for an end to the existing piece of turmoil whilst looking forward to whatever is next, but the truth is, life is that turmoil.” – Richard Georgiou, after a rather nice glass of whiskey.
27th October 2017
Selective hearing, a vital ingredient of every marriage.
14th October 2017
What the bloody hell is going on? The house is infested with ladyboys! – (Autocorrect – I meant ladybirds)
3rd October 2017
I’ve just received a call from 020 7064 0222. I was asked if I’d had an accident in the last two to three years. I asked them to confirm that they were talking about the time when I slipped down the stairs in Ikea and accidentally soiled myself. Unfortunately the lady didn’t understand, I attempted to help her by simplifying it to “I CRAPPED MYSELF” but she still didn’t understand, then she hung up on me. No one understands me. Why won’t they listen?
14th September 2017
You can tell when it’s lunch time in this house, the dog sits down next to you and sticks her tongue up her arse. <sigh>
11th September 2017
So, time for some home truths. Of late, I’ve been suffering from a bit of a bout of frustration regarding my complete lack of ability when it comes to anything that requires thinking, ability, skill or intellect. And today I decided that I would put my cognitive ability to the test by putting up the curtain rail in my office. I decided to look at the problem using my analytical eye, compile a solution and implement it without fault. I was hoping the end result was going to be a curtain rail perfectly installed and a boost to the old self esteem; however, as I’m sure you’ve worked out by now, the actual result was somewhat different.
I would bore you with details about how I measured twice and drilled once, thought, measured again, thought some more then drilled, et cetera, et cetera but suffice to say the bloody thing’s wonky as hell and looks terrible. Not the confidence booster I was hoping for. Bollocks.
7th September 2017
Bloody wife’s getting all dictatorial.
4th September 2017
After last night’s, head first, trip down the stairs I have to admit to feeling ‘proper old’ for the first time in my life. I’ve got a nice swollen purple bruise on my back, a bloody great bruise and lump on my hip, a sore elbow, a lump on my forehead and a small scratch on my pinky finger which completes my reduction from manly super-stud to decrepit little old man perfectly. Going by how much it hurts to take a deep breath, get into or out of bed, or even to simply wipe one’s bottom I’m guessing I’ve cracked a rib. I won’t be doing that again!
Oh, and I almost forgot, as I lay there on the floor, trying hard to breath, my wonderful wife walked over and said “What are you making that stupid noise for?”
Tonight my friends, I’ll be raising my glass to wives all over the world for their incredible abilities to provide sympathy in man’s darkest hour.
30th august 2017
Dear floods in India and Houston, please be gentle with my fellow people.
27th August 2017
So, Flowie and I went to a restaurant here in the bonny Highlands and had lobster. When the waiter asked ‘How is the lobster?’ Flowie said ‘it’s a bit tough.’ The waiter then responded with ‘Yeah, that’s why I don’t like it’. Pure genius. We didn’t leave a tip but I did chuckle all the way back to the hotel.
10th August 2017
I’ve always considered myself to be one of the lucky few who are almost immune to depression but today, after reading the news, I can’t help but feel that the world we live in is going down a route that I don’t really want to be a part of. The Malaysian government are hunting down atheists so they can be ‘re-educated’, Donald Trump and Kim Jong-un are playing ‘my cock’s bigger than your cock’ with nuclear weapons and millions of people’s lives and I have just come to the realisation that my life, and all the lives of the people I love are nothing more than a tiny bargaining chip in the futile game of power played by religious and political leaders in their quest for more. It’s the leaders that take us into war, the individuals just want to tend their vegetable patches, provide a future for their children or browse porn on the Internet. Why can’t we just live our little lives without being used by our unethical, power hungry, arse hole leaders as disposable assets to be used at their will?
25th July 2017
After fitting a brand new spark plug in my Stihl hedge cutter, and filling it with fresh fuel, the bloody thing still refused to start. Its absolute stubbornness didn’t even waiver when threatened with the most severe of violence. As I ranted away to the inanimate object my wife arrived on the scene and offered me a slice of wisdom.
“Have you checked the alternator?”
23rd May 2017 – I’m getting old.
I’ve just been sitting here for the last three hours listening to what I thought was the weirdest song I’d ever heard, only after repeating phrases like “music was better in my day” and “I don’t understand the youth of today” did I realise the CD was jumping. Sigh, it’s hard being me.
8th April 2017
Having a sneaky dig in the privacy of one’s car whilst sitting in traffic is one thing but extreme deep core drilling is quite another. With the sun due to make one of its rare appearances both today and tomorrow I decided to whip into Hailsham to purchase some coals for the BBQ. With said job done I made my way outside and into the traffic. So, there I was, sitting in a queue of cars waiting for the lights to change when I stupidly glanced over at the driver of the car next to me. Initial inspection revealed a respectable looking young lady of around twenty years; however, just as I was about to look back at the road she began to pick her nose. Well, I say ‘pick her nose’ but what I actually saw was more reminiscent of brain surgery. With her index finger inserted all the way up to the second knuckle I decided I’d seen enough and looked away.
I examined the traffic lights, the other cars around me, the pavement and all the signs but before long curiosity got the better of me and I glanced back over at the bogie monster. What I saw next will stay with me for the rest of my life.
I watched in horror she covered her right nostril with her finger and snorted out, what can only be described as, a large proportion of her Cerebral cortex. This didn’t just weep out but was fired out with such force that it shot out of her nose and onto the steering wheel. My stomach jumped but I found I was physically unable to look away. As I was battling with my stomach, Hailsham’s finest then leant forward and sucked the slimy substance off her steering wheel and into her mouth. At this sight my throat opened and I let out a huge involuntary retch burp and my foot slipped off the clutch. Luckily the cars in front of me had moved on. I think I’m going to need counselling.
2nd February 2017
On the whole I tend to think of myself as a reasonably intelligent person surrounded by idiots (it’s comforting okay); however, today has challenged that belief.
The fact that my beloved potato peeler broke last week meant that to cook a meal for my darling wife’s return later today, I’d have to use our old and crappy potato peeler. I’m left handed and the old one is designed for a right handed person.
With liver and bacon bubbling away in the pan I set about peeling the potatoes. I picked up the old, razor sharp potato peeler and started peeling the spuds. <slip>. After slicing my finger I made my way to the first aid box which for a reason I cannot fathom contained only a tampon, a condom and an aspirin. After failing to work out how any of the above could be of use to me I stuck my finger under the tap like a proper man and demonstrated my firm grasp of Anglo-Saxon.
The swearing seemed to stem the flow of blood so I resumed ‘the peeling of the potatoes’ ritual. <slip>.
After slicing through the same finger a second time I decided that perhaps it was time to look for another ingredient. So, the question was ‘what goes with liver and bacon?’ I rummaged through the cupboard. Not rice, not porridge and certainly not whisk and serve semolina. I had no choice but to continue peeling the potatoes.
<slip> After the third incision into my finger I decided that no further potatoes were necessary, I somehow convinced myself that Flowie would be ecstatic with liver and bacon with half a teaspoon of mashed potato so I placed the potato peeler (weapon) on the table and cooked the rest of my darling wife’s surprise.
So, here I sit awaiting the arrival of my darling wife. I’m hoping against hope that she can see passed the blood soaked handkerchief, I’m hoping against hope that she can see passed the micro helping of mashed potato. I’m hoping against hope that she can see what a wonderful husband she has and that she has the ability to appreciate me to the fullest.
Friends, wish me luck.
18th January 2017
Last night I had a dream that I had to choose between my wife and Claudia Winkleman.
17th October 2016
So, there I was about to go through the door of the Post Office when I noticed a young lady with her child heading for the exit, even though the rain was hammering down and I was fully loaded with twelve packages comprising large letters, small packets and a medium parcel, I took the time to open the door (with my head) to allow the young lady and her child to exit before I went through. She walked right through the open door without so much as a nod and avoided my eyes as she did. I ignored her complete lack of manners and remained in place as the little girl walked through.
“Thank you.” the little girl said with a big smile.
“It’s a pleasure” I said “You must have got your manners from your Dad”.
Then just as I thought the conversation was over the little girl made my day by saying
“Apparently, my Mum doesn’t have time for manners.”
And with that the little girl was grabbed by the arm and whisked away.
3rd September 2016
PART ONE: Two years ago, after realising that every man and his dog had a flat, wide screen super-mega television I decided to indulge myself and chuck my narrow screen, rounded front TV in my neighbours skip. A quick trip to Richer Sounds ended in a lurid credit card orgy of LCD panels, amplifiers, DAC’s and a cornucopia of bloody expensive, golden ended cables. All went according to plan until I got home. After a four hour manual reading frenzy I completed the set up.
PART TWO: What I didn’t realise back then was that the set up was actually the easy part. The hard part was switching the bloody thing on and watching a film. Ever since my ‘upgrade’ the process of watching a film has involved at least two hours of swearing, one hour of pacing and twenty minutes of borderline nervous breakdown. Take this evening as a prime example.
The other day my wonderful wife mentioned that she’d love to watch Thelma & Louise. So, being the perfect husband (shut it!) I bought the DVD from Amazon and this evening, after my wife came in from visiting her Mum, I ‘attempted’ to put the film on. I switched on the blue-ray player, switched on the amplifier, switched on the TV, switched on the DAC, switched the TV to AV2, put the DVD into the blue-ray player, switched the DAC to input 1, set the TV audio source to PCM (whatever the fuck that is) and sat back on the sofa with my wife to watch the film. Unfortunately, even though the TV was showing Thelma & Louise, the sound track was from the Antiques Roadshow (never before have I found the presence of Fiona Bruce frustrating but …)
The result was that Flowie and I ended up watching Thelma & Louise in Glorious mono. It was about the same quality as I used to get with my old TV but with a bank account about two grand down. I consider my cognitive ability to be at least average but, for the love of God, I can’t work out how to watch a bloody film. Am I alone in my frustrations?
9th July 2016
So, there I was showing Flowie some photographs of me when I was a toddler. I was expecting “Awww, so sweet, so lovely”. Instead I got “You haven’t changed much. You still do that stupid expression. Why have you got spastic shoes on?”. Feeling loved.
6th July 2016
I was incredibly excited to see my “One Man on a Bike” book taking the number one spot in the Kindle Free Books in the category non fiction >> travel >> Africa. When I checked the top 100 I found that it only contained 3 books. Almost famous.
9th June 2016 (wild camping by the Rhone in France)
Jesus Christ! This place is absolutely mental. The frogs are making a right royal row and jumping in the pond like their arses are on fire. There’s something roaming outside licking our plates and the river is alive with weird howls and squawking noises. Wicked!
13th May 2016
Our tomato plants are coming along nicely. Fucking cat!
18th February 2016
So, this morning I went to the supermarket and bought some Aptamil 1 First Milk baby food for a friend of mine. As I was standing there holding the tub in my hands a young woman smiled at me and said “Awww, how old?” I couldn’t help myself and said “I’m 43 but still act like a child.” The chap next to me laughed but she wasn’t impressed at all.
8th February 2016
I thought I’d give you all an update on my thumb “condition”. After the comments from Johnny D and Mitch on FaceBook I decided that it was probably best to visit a professional. As such I made my way down to the local Doctors for a ‘get the ball rolling’ examination. My first impressions were very good; a designer building with real oak slabs and ample glass work coated the exterior, a garden that most horticulturists would sell a kidney for surrounded the building and exuding from all this was a feeling of honesty and sincerity. I crunched over the fresh gravel into the ample reception and was immediately greeted by a cavernous space that would make most opera companies proud. I made my way to the reception and checked in.
“Errr, I hurt my thumb a few weeks ago and think I need it looked at.” I waved my poor attempt of a splinted thumb in the ladies direction. There was the slightest inkling of a smile but the rest of her simply said ‘idiot’. I ignored this and waited for her reply.
“I’ll ask the nurse to take a look” she said. I smiled and sat on a chair as far away from the coughing infestations as I could manage.
Over the following thirty-five minutes I watched as people came and went, and came and went. For some reason I didn’t do any of that, I just sat there. When I finally caught the eye of the receptionist her expression told me why, it read
“Shit! I forgot about you.” I watched as she spoke to the nurse gesturing towards me and smiling. The nurse was obviously very busy and very stressed.
Forty minutes after that the receptionist spoke to the nurse, again gesturing in my direction. I stood up as she approached, the gentleman in me over ruling the frustration.
“The nurse tells me that you’re going to need to see the Doctor. I’ll speak to the Doctor as soon as I can.”
I acknowledged the information with a smile and a slight nod and sat back down hoping it would be the right side an hour.
Half an hour later I watched as the receptionist spoke with the Doctor whilst gesturing in my direction. The Doctor disappeared back to his office, the receptionist looked flushed and took a deep breath. As she approached I stood up.
“I’ve just spoken to the Doctor. He recommends a Thumb Spica. Your best bet is to visit the A&E in Uckfield.” The gentleman in me smiled on the outside whilst the man in me hacked off my thumb on the inside. Her cheeks, flush with blood, told me everything.
“Don’t worry, I understand” I said “I’ll just run it under the tap.”
.. And that is how I came to have my thumb self-splinted with a 16MB memory stick and 3 metres of Selotape.
4th January 2016
“What if I told you that insane was working fifty hours a week in some office for fifty years at the end of which they tell you to piss off.” Garland Greene, Con Air.