Following in Father's Footsteps...

WARNING: This post is a little gorey, if you're not a fan of hilariously stupid injuries and fairly graphic descriptions of them then you may want to turn back. In the meantime though you can check out my shiny new Facebook page for behind the scenes rambling, daft pictures and more details of other shenanigans.


 This is my Daddybear. Isn't he handsome? He's the loveliest Daddy I could have asked for - albeit occasionally grumpy and a total wind-up merchant - and I love him to bits. I've always been told I look a lot like him, though my beard never comes in that well; and that we have a lot of the same mannerisms. We're both total nerds, enjoy shouting at the telly and ranting about things and both find Hayley Williams very attractive.

 But last night I had a moment that definitely solidified that there is no denying I'm his daughter. When I was younger I would do the typical teenage thing of arguing with him, storm to my room and slam the door, and think to myself "how can I actually be related to this man!?". Don't lie, we've all done it at one time or another. However this event makes me question how I could ever think that.

 One of my clearest childhood memories was from when I was about seven. Dad was fitting a new banister, and being the handy-around-the-house DIY type that he is he was doing all the work himself; staining and varnishing the wood, cutting and fitting pieces. Though this would prove to be a bit of a mistake. I'd been sat in the living room watching Scooby Doo (probably, it was my absolute favourite) when he comes in from his garage (aka his Man Cave), talking incoherently and in a panic and goes to see my Mam. I follow him into the kitchen and see blood all over the kitchen floor and him holding his hand. From what my little brother told me it was quite a spectacular sight. He'd been in the garage at the time and saw Dad slice through his hand between his finger and thumb with a stanley knife while evening out the bottom of one of the rungs, coming very close to losing his thumb. The knife had slipped, cutting his hand quite deeply, blood shooting up in an arc through the air. My little brother's reaction - cry, scream, panic at the blood? Nope!

"Wow, do it again Dad!!"

My Mam, as any good partner would, put it under the tap to clean it up and see how bad it was. However in the process she ended up washing part of his nerve down the sink too. It was a bit of a crazy night, one of our Grandparents having to take him to hospital rather than dragging the whole family out to Accident and Emergency. After surgery and a lot of stitches he was all patched up and on the mend. I remember Mam taking us on the bus over to see him in the RVI and it absolutely pouring with rain; we ended up having to duck into the Oxfam shop on the way from the bus station to get some dry clothes - I got a nice pair of jeans with a skirt attached to them and they became my absolute favourite. He looked pretty sorry for himself, full of painkillers with his hand all strapped up. It's pretty strange as a child with parents who are otherwise fit and well to see them so ill. Dad recovered well and eventually got the feeling back in his hand, though we still mock him to this day about this and similar clumsy injuries. However last night I may have lost any high ground I had to mock him from about such a ridiculous injury.

Like father like daughter - still both adorable!

 Paul and I got back to Newcastle at about 10 last night after a weekend in Edinburgh with a wonderful friend of ours, we had had such a fantastic time and were quite sad to leave. Given how late it was and how down we felt about coming home we agreed that something quick and convenient from Sainsbury's would be better than cooking that night so instead we could devote our energy to cuddling up in front of the telly and talking about how good our trip had been. Being the good wifey-to-be that I am I put Paul's pizza in the oven while my pasta bake was in the microwave and he got the telly set up and an episode of Family Guy ready to go. However shit hit the fan when I decided to go one step further and cut his pizza for him, the cutter slipped when I got stuck on the crust and I found that while I didn't quite get through the crust I had almost severed the tip of my finger.

 It was a bit of a surreal moment, it stung like a bitch and bled all over my feet and the floor and all I could do was stand there looking at it, wondering how on earth I had managed such a deep cut with a bloody pizza cutter of all damn things and how I'd go about clearing it up with just one hand. Priorities, amiright? When Paul came in to see what had happened, what had warranted the "oh fuck", he immediately began asking if I was okay and how bad it was. All I could say?

"Well... There's no denying I'm my father's daughter."

 I stayed quite calm actually, polishing off my pasta bake and chatting happily about what an idiot I was while my poor Paulobear panicked that I'd severed my tendons. Having done so himself a few years ago I could see why it was a worry. After a phone call to NHS 111 I told him to get to bed while I got myself along to the RVI. A long wait, x-ray and a tetanus jab later (it really fucking hurt, right in my shoulder!) the wonderful doctors determined that I had cut right down to the bone but it was perfectly intact, no damage to that. Unfortunately because of where the injury is, right down my finger tip it wouldn't be possible to stitch it as it would just split again so I'm looking forward to sever weeks of steristrips and three days of antibiotics just to be on the safeside.

 So from my little misadventure I've learned several things:

• If you're going to slice your hand/fingers with anything, do it with a pizza cutter; it leaves a nice and straight cut - although hot cheese and tomato sauce aren't the nicest of things to get in a wound.
• The NHS is absolutely fantastic, no matter how stupid your injury they'll try their best not to laugh at you.
• Clumsiness can run in the family. Not only have me and my Dad shown that we can't be trusted with sharp objects but a year or so ago my darling little brother thought that the best way to see if the blender was still broken was with his finger...

 Thank you Daddybear, while we may be ridiculous human beings we at least give people a good laugh! Love you xx

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