W is for cut glass

On Saturday morning I slashed my palm on a milk bottle. It was a
deep 2 inch gash on my left hand and caused by a shard of glass
sticking out. How did I do it? I had to recreate getting a milk bottle
out of the fridge and taking off the bottle top to find out. It seems
that I always stroke the side of the bottle in the process.

The hand bled more or less all day and I didnt think to go to the
hospital and get it stitched up.
Hearing the voices of Other People in my head I had the common sense to
phone the dairy and sow the seeds of my complaint, even though a voice
told me her boss wasn't in untilo Monday.

It is very difficult for me to get down to making phone calls sometimes
and yesterday i was feeling particularly evasive and found lots of
things to do which seemed important at the time.

I did however visit a doctor and wave my scar at him and he kindly made
an official note about what he called my 2-3 inch 'laceration'.
When I went out to the techno thing in the evening I kept my hand sort
of curled up and it was not too bad. I'd thought of wearing a blood red
outfit but I don't possess anything in that colour. I didn't dance with
anyone wearing a white shirt.

Today I did actually phone the dairy and spoke to boss man who said he
would visit me a.m. My son looked disgusted as he caught me trying to
stretch the quickly knitting skin out into a gaping wound again. I felt
cheap, but explained I just didnt want to waste the dairyman's
time.
I felt really silly by now. I hated the fact that after all my cussing
and bleeding and inconvenience I was probably about to say "well never
mind these things happen" or "it didn't hurt much, so don't
worry"

The dairy boss arrived about 5 to 12 . He looked like Gene Pitney, had
an unusual black and blue patterned shirt and strong aftershave. He was
carrying a box of biscuits. "Yippee" I th0ught "compensation!"

They were a large box of biscuits too, Christmas Hamper quality I
guessed, though I didnt want him to think I'd notice them.

I think as we talked at length about what had happened, both of us
noticed the terrible smell. A little something my neighbours dog had
prepared earlier under my shoe. Gene presented the biscuits and I felt
touched as he seemed embarrassed and shaky. I wondered how much more
nervous he'd have felt if I'd had time to clean off my shoes, wash up
and make the sink area bare and streamlined.Maybe worn an apron and had
fresh bread baking on the aga. And not had 3 cats asleep on the eating
table. Never mind.

He took the bottle away , admiring the fragment of dangerous glass
which I'd stuck on the approximate spot with sellotape.