Bloody Sunday
Grandad March 28th, 2011
I quite like gardening.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t like me.
The old lawn was looking a bit tattered, seeing as it hasn’t been cut since last September or so. Yesterday I thought I would take a spin around on the old ride-on mower.
It is a fair sized lawn, and usually takes around an hour to cut. It was very pleasant out yesterday so I spent the hour happily driving around in ever decreasing circles. Fortunately, when I reached the centre of my ever decreasing circles, I didn’t vanish up my own arse, as the old joke would have it.
When the job was done, and the mower stashed away for another couple of months, I decided I deserved a grand mug of tea. I filled the kettle and set it to boil. Two minutes later, I returned to the kettle to find it covered in blood. Being reasonably intelligent, I discounted the kettle as being the source of all the mess, and started looking nearer to home. Sure enough, I had cut my finger and it was pumping the red stuff all over the place.
It was a tiny cut; so small that I didn’t even feel it yet it was pumping by the gallon. I wrapped an old rag around the finger and sat down to enjoy my mug-full.
It was then I felt a slight stinging sensation in my leg. I pulled up my trouser-leg and found a six-inch cut all the way up the calf. It too was bleeding profusely.
Where do these cuts and nicks come from? I don’t remember getting caught in anything. What annoys me is that this happens every time I go into the garden. It is almost impossible to step outdoors without getting something lacerated. My arms and legs are covered in a crazy pattern of scars. I don’t know where any of them came from, except that they are the result of entering the garden.
My blood is good stuff. O Rh Negative, no less. Also it is probably around 40% proof at this stage of my life, so I don’t fancy the idea of it just leaking out after a simple stroll around the demesne.
There is nothing else for it….
Herself will have to do all the gardening from now on.
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