Last night I stabbed myself with a sheet of lasagne. There was blood everywhere (but not, thankfully, not in the lasagne (but in retrospect ok there were no vegetarians coming for dinner anyway, so it would not have been THAT much of a tragedy)).
The reason the lasagne was apparently razor sharp was nothing to do with Waitrose finest but actually because I'd managed to singe my fingertips on the mower at the weekend, and the ensuing disappearance of the blisters left my digits just a tad on the vulnerable side (one good episode of Lassie and they would have been blubbing).
Curiously, my burned fingers were not the only casualties of that day, our new car window also had its window bashed in.
It went something like this:
It's true what they say, no good deed goes unpunished.
This is our shiny new trailer – 8 x 5 with 4 ft cage with ramps at the back for access...
We were clearing up the garden for the dogs (in a snow squall - obviously)
A cyclist decided to hack along the road without looking where he was going (cos it was snowing).
I was in the trailer with a rusted oil drum ‘bit’.
Brian was dragging trees to the trailer.
I saw the cyclist.
I screamed at the cyclist.
The cyclist was listening to his iPod.
I screamed at the cyclist EVEN LOUDER.
The cyclist looked up.
No-one heard what the cyclist said.
The cyclist had a multi choice quiz:
a)swerve right and miss the trailer
b)go straight on and hit the trailer
c)swerve left and go up the ramp into the trailer
The cyclist chose ‘C’.
This was the wrong choice.
The cyclist went up the ramp into the trailer.
The cyclist missed me.
The cyclist missed the rusty oil drum with the jaggedy edges.
The cyclist hit the tree branches.
The bicycle stopped.
The cyclist did not have an air-bag.
The cyclist did not have a seatbelt.
The cyclist did not stop.
The cyclist did a backflip over the handlebars.
The cyclist did a backflip over the 4ft cage.
The cyclist hit the backdoor of the Land Cruiser.
The cyclist’s foot smashed the rear window.
The cyclist stopped.
The cyclist dribbled to the ground.
The car will take a month to repair.
Curiously, after we picked the cyclist up and assessed that there was, astonishingly, no real damage (apart from ripped trews), all he said was "Hello, you must be Kerri".
Only in the Falklands.
