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Thoughts and things not happending on a Friday. Yule period. 2012.

Some months ago, I broke a couple of finger bones punching a bloke* in the face.  He, and his inebriated acquaintance, attempted to topple me from, and then steal, my bicycle.  Something I wasn’t apt to allow them to do – given that my lovely road bike (currently, given the winter weather, holding coats and the dog’s lead) will eventually cost me £600.

I’m reminded of this incident whenever I type a while; the little finger on my right hand swells up. Those ruffians cost me two fingers and a cycle helmet.  

Hands though – they say rather a lot about a person, don’t they?  Here are my hands: The skin isn’t grey, but in other respects is quite elephantine – having been exposed over the years to many and varied toxic substances.  Not that I work habitually with chemicals, but I am rather averse to Marigolds when I do.

The nails are short. Clipped casually and not filed. The sign, perhaps, of a lazy person that doesn’t care much about her appearance.  In my youth, they were talon-like and painted deep red. These days, as I have no one to dig them into, they’ve reverted to functional finger-end-protectors/end-of-sticky-tape-finders/dead-foot-skin removers.

My left wrist is the most interesting part of the handal area; sporting an array of scars. One a wound from our German Shepherd Tyson (Anubis protect his soul) unhappy about a trip to the vet. One a cigarette burn – delivered in TOTS (who remembers that?) nightclub. Neither me nor friend realising she was resting her cigarette on me until we smelled burning flesh. Alcohol, it transpires, really is an effective anaesthetic.  And this wrist also bears the scar of which I’m most proud. A wonderful T-shaped scar where my flesh was peeled so that smashed bones could be pinned back together. The cause of this spectacular break; silk seamed stockings.  I made for a glamorous, pathetic, sight whilst awaiting morphine in A&E.  

And of course, being a SWC (Single Woman with Cats) my hands are peppered with affectionate scratches.

So now you know.

This may seem an odd first entry for a diary-style blog.  Doesn’t tell you, nor my future self, much about what I’m not achieving today. It’s a sign of things to come. Random ponderings, notes, photos – who knows. I don’t make the rules.

For completeness, here are some facts about today:

  • It was my first day back in the office after Xmas. I ate some biscuits.
  • My trousers are very tight and I was unhappy to note that I’m developing a “muffin-top”.  On the plus side; my boobs are benefiting from the extra blubber.
  • I walked the dogs with my sister at lunchtime. I picked up two bagfuls of poop. The park was very wet. A man was taking photos of the puddles. Lexi chased seagulls. (Lexi being one of the dogs; not the sister.)
  • The Adventurists emailed me back. I’m to ring them next Friday.
  • Later; I plan to see my Friday Night Gang friends and help them defeat Lovecraftian monsters. Oh, The Horror.


* Ordinarily, I would say “chap”, but that word invokes an image of someone far more refined. A Chap would only engage in fisticuffs in a sportsmanlike way and in strict accordance with Queensbury Rules.


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