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?
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