Ow. Owowowowowowowowowow!

So, thank you anonymous idiot.

I am nursing a knee the size of a cricket ball on account of some unknown flangehampster. Of a weekend, I like to nip out to the local Turkish caff (known locally, though not to the propriators' face, as Saddams on account of the now sadly deceased founder's uncanny resemblance to a certain ex dictator). So it went.

Except that when I crossed the High Street, right next to the bus stop there was a stretch of wet pavement. It looked like one of those bits where the nearest business had slopped out some hot water and detergent on the path to clean it up a little. I thought no more of it until I put my foot on it to get up obver the double kerb and off the street.

My next memory is of the world moving sideways and my left knee hitting the sharp of the kerb - right in that small hollow between the kneecap and the shinbone. I'm not sure what I said (yelped), but a couple of people came over to se if I was OK (unexpectedly nice in London).

So. Not water. Oil.

I assured them that my pride had taken the most battering - (and thanked them, I think. I hope).

Anyway these things never seem to happen when you're wearing jeans of dark colours. No, they only happen when you're wearing white chinos.

Judging by the speed at which they came out to express concern and mop up the mes on the pavement, I have a feeling that I cannot prove, that the culprits may reside within Saddams itself. Hmm.

Much to my surprise, I broke out into a cold sweat, so minor shock. Odd, because it's not as if I haven't fallen over before and cracked some extremity harder than I would wish.

Anyway, come the evening, thanks to romney, a swarfega doused pair of chinos went into the wash. They are largely clean agaion, another good wash should get the remnants of the oil out.

But my knee, oddly unbruised, but with a nasty scab where blood was forced out without breaking the skin (ooo) and some swelling still looks at me accusingly.

Tis tender when I prod it. (Note to self: don't prod it), buut otherwise it sems OK. Certainly I can walk OK.

But Ow. Owowowowowwowowowowwowowow nonetheless.

Ow. Owowowowowowowowowow!

So, thank you anonymous idiot.

I am nursing a knee the size of a cricket ball on account of some unknown flangehampster. Of a weekend, I like to nip out to the local Turkish caff (known locally, though not to the propriators' face, as Saddams on account of the now sadly deceased founder's uncanny resemblance to a certain ex dictator). So it went.

Except that when I crossed the High Street, right next to the bus stop there was a stretch of wet pavement. It looked like one of those bits where the nearest business had slopped out some hot water and detergent on the path to clean it up a little. I thought no more of it until I put my foot on it to get up obver the double kerb and off the street.

My next memory is of the world moving sideways and my left knee hitting the sharp of the kerb - right in that small hollow between the kneecap and the shinbone. I'm not sure what I said (yelped), but a couple of people came over to se if I was OK (unexpectedly nice in London).

So. Not water. Oil.

I assured them that my pride had taken the most battering - (and thanked them, I think. I hope).

Anyway these things never seem to happen when you're wearing jeans of dark colours. No, they only happen when you're wearing white chinos.

Judging by the speed at which they came out to express concern and mop up the mes on the pavement, I have a feeling that I cannot prove, that the culprits may reside within Saddams itself. Hmm.

Much to my surprise, I broke out into a cold sweat, so minor shock. Odd, because it's not as if I haven't fallen over before and cracked some extremity harder than I would wish.

Anyway, come the evening, thanks to romney, a swarfega doused pair of chinos went into the wash. They are largely clean agaion, another good wash should get the remnants of the oil out.

But my knee, oddly unbruised, but with a nasty scab where blood was forced out without breaking the skin (ooo) and some swelling still looks at me accusingly.

Tis tender when I prod it. (Note to self: don't prod it), buut otherwise it sems OK. Certainly I can walk OK.

But Ow. Owowowowowwowowowowwowowow nonetheless.

Tortures for the 21st Century

Number 1:

Visiting the Laundrette on a hot midsummer Sunday afternoon.

-and on another note - don't boot up your PC whilst leaning on the keyboard. It screameth like unto an Hell Beast (and the mouse won't work).

Tortures for the 21st Century

Number 1:

Visiting the Laundrette on a hot midsummer Sunday afternoon.

-and on another note - don't boot up your PC whilst leaning on the keyboard. It screameth like unto an Hell Beast (and the mouse won't work).