Under my thumb...
When I married the husband many years ago, I never expected that I would be rattling off around two thousand words a day for total strangers to read (many of which have since become virtual friends). Nor did I expect the husband to be such a rich source of tales.
You'll remember that last Wednesday, we were unable to go to our Swing Dance classes because the husband had decided to head butt a scaffold pole. He had come home stitched up like a kipper and had been erratically shaved so was grounded from any exercise.
So I was really looking forward to dancing last night. Yes, I knew it would be hot, and yes, I knew that I would have a face like an exploded tomato come the end of the class, and yes, I knew that my knees would be creaking, but nevertheless, I was still looking forward to hurling myself round the dance floor. But all of these expectations came crashing to the floor at around 4.00 yesterday afternoon, when the husband called me and with a very apologetic voice told me that he 'couldn't go dancing'.
'Oh for goodness' sake', I said jokingly, 'you haven't injured yourself again have you?'
There was a pause and then a rather sheepish,
Turned out that he'd managed to slice the top third of his thumb off with a 'very sharp Stanley knife'. Being the caring wife that I am, I didn't state the obvious about how none of this would have happened if he'd chosen to use a blunt one, but boy, did that take some doing. Telling son number one what his dad had done this week, he suggested that perhaps his dad was of an age where he was not allowed to go out unchaperoned. I took it one step further and said that I wouldn't allow him to leave the house next Wednesday, just in case something else happened.
Just as I was considering serving the boys their dinner (if I had heard one of them ask 'What's for dinner?' or 'What time will dinner be?' there may have been trouble, so I was loathe to wait too long before throwing their food at them and running for cover) the door opened, and in walked the Hunter/Gatherer I share my home with.
Now I'm not saying that it was a larger than expected bandage, but the husband was stooped to one side, his left hand knuckles dragging gracefully across the carpet as he walked into the kitchen.
What with that and the stitched head, I was reminded of Quasimodo, and yet again, there was some uncontrollable mirth at his expense.
Sitting outside after dinner, he glanced over to me, and said, 'If you're wondering why my flies are undone, it's because I can't do them up with this bloody bandage on'.
Well, it's a thumbs up from me...