In a fatigue-induced kitchen-based accident last night yours truly very nearly sliced off the top of his middle finger with a pair of scissors.
I say “very nearly” with a degree of exaggeration.
It’s not like I sliced down to the bone or spray painted the ceiling with a 30ft blood geyser.
But it was messy. And rather stupid.
How did I do it?
Well, I was doing my bit for recycling and was attempting to deconstruct a large cardboard box. As anybody knows a few swipes with the blade of a pair of scissors is great for parting glued or sellotaped edges.
However, not so great when you get your finger caught between the two blades one of which then jams in the cardboard and, the laws of physics being what they are, pulls its companion towards it.
Remarkably there was and still is no pain.
Just a slight numbness but this could be down to the tightness of the plaster expertly administered by my wife as I held my newly grooved digit over the washing up bowl.
Karen thinks there is the possibility that I have severed a nerve (possibly hers) but I fear this sounds far too glamorous to be true.
It’s just a cut.
Received in the battle to save our dying planet.
I’m a bloody hero, me.