So, at work, a mechanic type person got a metal splinter in his hand. It was all very dramatic and apparently intensely painful and I expect if Steven Spielberg had been there he would have been caught up in the drama and optioned the film rights – that is if the splinter was an actual splinter and not a teeny weeny speck that I could barely see. The bloke in question was apparently in ‘massive pain’ – uh huh – and had to get it out or he was in danger of dying – so he told me. The thing is he couldn’t shove the sharp, splinter get-er-out-er-rer probe into his own hand because he knew it would hurt ‘terribly.’ I did what any woman worth her salt would have done when faced by a whiner, I took the sharp probe, grabbed his hand, plunged it in and flipped the life threatening splinter from his flesh in a matter of seconds. He howled. He pointed to the speck of blood this major surgery involved. Sigh…where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?