Loose rivets
11th May 2010, 21:21
. . . Universe.
Take my wife (Boom, boom, shiiiiiiingggggg) on the day we should be packing for getting lost in the ash cloud, she's trimming trees. I wouldn't mind, but I'd been chainsawing for two days, and got masses of 'brush' out for the council collection. But it seemed she wanted that bit gone, and gone it had to be.
"LOONIE"
I thought that to myself, but shouted out of the kitchen window how nice it looked. However, she gets an Owie.
She thrusts the affected finger under my nose.
"Can you get it out?"
"Is it Mesquite?"
"Yes."
"Shoot! Bet that hursts."
No reply.
Long story short. X 4 and X 10 eyeglasses, surgical spirit, needles, tissues, huge anglepoise light, and some blood later. It's a deep buggah. Right on the side of the knuckle - probably not quite to the bone. Can't get it.
Go to garage and grind a needle into a scaple. Done it before, but this time I'm in a hurry, and all my fine tools are on a different landmass. I'm filing it with a diamond relay cleaning thingy, when she starts telling me how to do the surgery.
"Just cut the thing . . . don't just keep picking at it."
"Surgery's not done like that." I said, like someone that has read Mac the Knife's posts very carefully.
"Let me have it!"
Believe me, I thought about it.:}
Pick, pick, pick,
"I'll have to open it up more."
You may think I'm kidding about the next bit. But I'm not. While I was honing the edge of the scalpel/needle a tad more, I hear the unmistakable sound of my steak knife being sharpened on the butcher's steel. (She's a vegetarian, so not a sound I hear that much. could I be mistaken - no, it's true.) she comes in with the knife, puts her hand on the hobby bench . . . and starts to saw.
I held the spirit bottle up.
"No thanks, don't need that."
"It's not for you . . . I want to hold it under my nose."
"Mmm . . . you do look a little pale. Right, can you get it now?"
By now there was a sizable hole in her finger. The trouble was that it was full of blood. "Vacuum!" Says I. I start to giggle. "Wipe my brow . . . and when you've done that, slip yer hands down my underpa . . ."
"Shut UP! Dig."
Obviously, there's something in Mesquite that not only hurts like billy-o, but that spoils one's sense of humor as well.
I lift the end of the little black barb.
"Give me that!"
The patient takes my full set of working tools and digs about in the hole.
"Got it." She proudly holds up one trillionth part of a tree.
Now I'm sure that I don't need to say that she took all the credit for the operation.
If I assisted at all, it was for someone to let out warrior-like pain-relieving screams of aggression at; Mel Gibson with a broadsword. Leave no wounded, just one very junior surgical staff member, clearing up the plethora of improvised instruments, and one bloody steak knife.
Take my wife (Boom, boom, shiiiiiiingggggg) on the day we should be packing for getting lost in the ash cloud, she's trimming trees. I wouldn't mind, but I'd been chainsawing for two days, and got masses of 'brush' out for the council collection. But it seemed she wanted that bit gone, and gone it had to be.
"LOONIE"
I thought that to myself, but shouted out of the kitchen window how nice it looked. However, she gets an Owie.
She thrusts the affected finger under my nose.
"Can you get it out?"
"Is it Mesquite?"
"Yes."
"Shoot! Bet that hursts."
No reply.
Long story short. X 4 and X 10 eyeglasses, surgical spirit, needles, tissues, huge anglepoise light, and some blood later. It's a deep buggah. Right on the side of the knuckle - probably not quite to the bone. Can't get it.
Go to garage and grind a needle into a scaple. Done it before, but this time I'm in a hurry, and all my fine tools are on a different landmass. I'm filing it with a diamond relay cleaning thingy, when she starts telling me how to do the surgery.
"Just cut the thing . . . don't just keep picking at it."
"Surgery's not done like that." I said, like someone that has read Mac the Knife's posts very carefully.
"Let me have it!"
Believe me, I thought about it.:}
Pick, pick, pick,
"I'll have to open it up more."
You may think I'm kidding about the next bit. But I'm not. While I was honing the edge of the scalpel/needle a tad more, I hear the unmistakable sound of my steak knife being sharpened on the butcher's steel. (She's a vegetarian, so not a sound I hear that much. could I be mistaken - no, it's true.) she comes in with the knife, puts her hand on the hobby bench . . . and starts to saw.
I held the spirit bottle up.
"No thanks, don't need that."
"It's not for you . . . I want to hold it under my nose."
"Mmm . . . you do look a little pale. Right, can you get it now?"
By now there was a sizable hole in her finger. The trouble was that it was full of blood. "Vacuum!" Says I. I start to giggle. "Wipe my brow . . . and when you've done that, slip yer hands down my underpa . . ."
"Shut UP! Dig."
Obviously, there's something in Mesquite that not only hurts like billy-o, but that spoils one's sense of humor as well.
I lift the end of the little black barb.
"Give me that!"
The patient takes my full set of working tools and digs about in the hole.
"Got it." She proudly holds up one trillionth part of a tree.
Now I'm sure that I don't need to say that she took all the credit for the operation.
If I assisted at all, it was for someone to let out warrior-like pain-relieving screams of aggression at; Mel Gibson with a broadsword. Leave no wounded, just one very junior surgical staff member, clearing up the plethora of improvised instruments, and one bloody steak knife.
