Hey, remember that powder-room project I’ve been banging on about for weeks now? It’s taken a bit of a backseat to the kitchen this week, but over the last couple of days, things have ground to a halt in the kitchen (That doesn’t mean it’s finished, unfortunately, just that we’re waiting for stuff to be delivered for it, and there’s not much we can do in the meantime…), which gave Terry the opportunity to get back into the bathroom. Er, that sounded bad, didn’t it? I mean in the renovation sense, obviously. Actually, any time I mention Terry being “in the bathroom” over the next couple of weeks, just assume that’s what I mean, OK?
Anyway! Cut to late afternoon, yesterday. I was working at my desk, and Terry was downstairs in the bathroom, when he called up to ask if I could come and give him a hand.
(OK, that sounded even WORSE, didn’t it? Remember the disclaimer above, kids!)
Assuming he just needed me to test the height of a toilet, or perform some other dull, bathroom-renovation-related task, I took my sweet time getting there. First, I finished the sentence I was in the middle of typing, then, reaching the office door, I doubled back to grab my coffee mug, thinking I may as well switch the kettle on while I was downstairs. Finally, I meandered down to the kitchen…
… where I found Terry surrounded by the contents of the First Aid box, and frantically trying to stem the blood flow from a huge gash on his hand – which, I discovered later, he’d done with a Stanley knife.
(Oh yeah.. .you might want to skip this post if you’re at all squeamish. I should probably have said that first, huh?)
“OMG!” I said, taking in the scene before me. “Do you need me to drive you to the doctor? Is that going to need stitches?”
“Nope,” said Terry, bravely. “Just a scratch! Nothing really! Just give me a hand with this, will you?”
He gestured to the pile of bandages and other wound-related stuff piled on the worktop, and I set about helping him clean out the cut with antiseptic, then bandage it up.
“OK, I REALLY think we should go to the doctor now,” I said. “Just to be on the safe side.”
“No,” insisted Terry, through gritted teeth. “It’s absolutely fine! I think I’m possibly going to faint, though!”
I walked him through to the living room, and sat him down on the couch, then headed back to the kitchen to make him a mug of hot, sweet tea. Which, as we all know from TV soap operas, is what you do for someone who’s had a shock.
Carrying the tea back through to the living room, I discovered Terry lying on the floor, with his feet propped up on the couch.
“Dude,” I said. “Doctor. Now.”
But he point-blank refused to go, Seriously: MEN. WHAT IS IT WITH THEM?
Luckily the light-headedness passed quickly, and this morning the wound looks clean, and is starting to heal nicely, so it looks like disaster has been averted. I STILL think he should have gone to the doctor, though.
Needless to say, all house-related projects are on hold for the forseeable…
P.S. As I was about to publish this post, Terry said to me, “Do you want a photo of the cut for your blog?” I’ve turned him down on that one, so you get this cute photo of Rubin, plus a rare shot of me in sneakers, instead. (Don’t worry: those are my “I am doing work around the house” shoes – I haven’t forsaken my heels!) No need to thank me.