Monday, July 09, 2012

I Do The Washing-Up. (Warning: Contains Violence and Also Partial Nudity. The Nudity Is From The Ankles-Down, But Still.)

Aside from that time one of my brothers had a beautiful baby boy with his new wife – which doesn’t count as he has done it purely to make me unhappy – it has been uneventful of late.

I reflect upon this as I wash my dishes.

I have a system, which mainly involves leaving the sharp knives till last. I remember how the ex-Mrs.Tired would leave the kitchen knives in the bottom of the sink under a shroud of bubbles like some sort or Russian-roulette washing-up escapade but I’m far too wise. I don’t need the excitement. Besides, I’ve just sharpened mine – you could shave with them - they’re Sabatier and that sort of thing would be lunacy. They’re on the side, safely isolated.

Finished with everything, I move on to the knives. I briefly wonder who it was that wrote the song “You Want To Be Right Careful With That Sharp Knife” but it escapes me. I have to take some pills at the minute and they’re messing with my memory.

And my reaction time.

Jo ‘Thick As Shit’ Whiley on Radio 2 plays “The Cutter” by Echo And The Bunnymen.

I address the long carving-knife last; it’s caked with dried melted cheese from last-night’s lonely pizza. I’ve no great appetite for anything of late, let alone decent food.

It’s a tough one to get clean, and I attempt it with the blade facing my hand, because I’m bright like that.

My hand slips, one ounce of pressure too many and it slices through the sponge before I’ve even noticed, through the steel wool on the back and keeps going until with a ‘screee’ it slices bone.


I drop it. The dishwater turns a dark rusty colour. Cold tap full blast, my hand under it. Too low. Lower than my heart. I lift my hand above shoulder height. My forearm turns crimson.

The ‘medicine drawer’ is under the sink. I’ve only those ROLLS of sticking plaster. Fumbling with scissors I soak the best part of it with blood, rendering it non-adhesive. Deciding my right hand is out of commission for now, I hold one end of the plaster down with my elbow and cut a ragged strip.

It stays loosely in place. I glance at saucer-sized pools of blood and am astounded by how quickly they congeal.

I attach several more ragged strips of plaster to my thumb. Each soaks a darker, almost black, colour than the other. Including the plasters, my thumb is now three times its normal width, but the bleeding seems to be under control.

Around my bare feet on the laminate floor is a massive pool of burgundy washing-up-bloody-froth which I immediately slip in and hit the floor hip-first with a sickening thud. I thrash like a fish for a while attempting to gain some purchase.

“For fuck’s sake.”

I grab a cupboard-handle which immediately detaches itself. Amazingly, I do not then smack myself in the head with it.

“Are you ACTUALLY joking?”

Eventually I am upright and then try to decide how I am to get to the bathroom without making the rest of my house look like the Outlook Hotel from The Shining.

Some days later I have a neat scar on my right thumb and some non-specific nerve-damage which makes it feel like I’m receiving a massive electric shock every time I move it.

I have also resolved to start doing something worthy of genuine comment before I am reduced to writing about accidently disembowelling myself and burning my house down whilst attempting to boil an egg.

He looks just like his father, by the way. My first nephew.


Blogger Debster said...


11:59 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Oh deary me--thank goodness the knife had a tiny but of resistance from the scouring pad thing.

I hoe you won't mind me saying that, given that we know that you've survived, the tale does have a rather comical element to an outside observer. It's just the relentless build up of the way the ktichen conspires against you to make it worse.

Best of luck and hope the electric shocks go soon.

10:23 am  
Blogger Trashsparkle said...

Best you soak the knife the night before. But you know that now. How's the floor now?;)

3:03 pm  
Blogger Ellie said...

It's so he won't eat him: your brother is he; your nephew, him. Something about keeping the natural world in order. The resemblance reassures the father that it is his spawn and he can let it live.

10:36 pm  
Anonymous Johnners said...

Oh, thank fuck, you're back. Mostly in one piece too.

7:53 pm  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Debs: It didn't actually hurt. I'd gotten carried-away with the 'sharpening' and could easily have severed an arm without feeling it.

loob: Hello and thanks. That was kind of intentional, although sadly documentary. And it's getting better, thanks.

Trash: Fuck the floor. (It's ok)

Ellie: Ok Darwin, settle down.

Johnners: I've not really been anywhere. But thanks.

8:13 pm  
Blogger Patience_Crabstick said...

I am cringing and laughing at the same time.

8:30 pm  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Patience: Not sure if that is good or bad...

9:19 pm  
Blogger Dave Shelton said...

Pedantry: it's the Overlook (not Outlook) Hotel in The Shining (I only remember because A L Kennedy mentioned it on the radio recently).

Thank you for the gory slapstick. Brilliantly done (the writing of it, I mean. Obviously the accidental self harm was just plain stupid).

11:41 pm  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Dave: I was clearly thinking of an alternative version of The Shining in which Jack Torence is so maddened by Microsoft's shonky email client failing to connect to his ISP's mail server that he goes on the world's most ineffectual rampage ever, decides he's just going to use webmail instead and chooses the username

Oh and thank you.

12:31 am  

You been to see a hand specialist? You do not want a 'special finger' like my husband, and I don't mean it Like That. Brother sliced hand on a knife, husband had a gardening accident, father cut his on some devil blad, etc -get that shit looked at boy before you get Nosferatu Hands. Failing that I'll come and give you a "special cuddle" and chew all your food for you first so you don't have to use knives. Alicia Silverstone does it for her kids so it must be OK

3:02 am  

fyi Devil Blad is not what I meant

3:03 am  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

No, it all seems to be ok now, but am interested in knowing what a 'special' cuddle entails. Actually, no I'm not. Oh, I don't know.

Devil Blad sounds like a dreadful Norwegian death-metal band.

3:25 pm  
Anonymous monkeymother said...

You keep going away and just when I think you've gone for ever, you're back. Will you stop doing that please? I waste so much time just checking.

Well done, by the way. For the writing, I mean, not the bloody stupid accident. It must be a man thing: my old man, my son-in-law, and now you. And they always said that blunt knives were more dangerous than sharp?

9:10 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Raining again; pah!

12:44 pm  
Anonymous Em said...

Hello again. You had me at Partial Nudity. And Washing-Up.

3:38 am  
Blogger Lesley said...

I'm so glad you're back, but read most of that with my shoulders hunched up round my ears. You write so well that I was alternately grinning and grimacing as well. Thank fuck I'm sitting in my house and not anywhere public.

By the way, in our house a "special cuddle" is the phrase used to explain to a 4 year old how mammy and daddy would make a baby.

12:41 pm  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

MM: Oh I know. But just when I think I can't be bothered suddenly I can. It's very confusing. And of course sharp ones are more dangerous. That's just silly.

Anon: Your point?

Em: I think that says more about you than it does me.

Lesley: In which case I'm certain that is not what she meant. And hello.

11:02 pm  
Blogger Twisted Scottish Bastard said...

Be careful...just buy curry-outs.

8:42 am  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

TSB: I do not know what a 'curry-out' is. Thankfully.

10:09 pm  
Blogger Twisted Scottish Bastard said...

It's a curry bought at a take away.

6:53 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hey T.D., I haven't checked in for a little bit. Glad to see some things haven't changed. Congrats on the nephew and retaining all digits. Take it easy x

P.s. Comment moderation? Ooer, what have I missed?

11:43 am  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Hello! Sorry, don't know how long you've been languishing in my 'filters' or whatever they're called. Haven't figured-out how to disable it. Mainly because I haven't tried.

5:13 pm  
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