Stories of a short, fat bastard.

Last night I dropped the tin of dog food. The sharp lid of the tin fell onto the back of my hand with the full weight of the 1/2kg can behind it. I looked at the 2" long scratch and thought "Ooh! That was lucky ... No, wait." I moved my wrist and the cut felt weird. It was deep, and the back of your hand doesn't have a lot of flesh to it at the best of times. I could see into my hand, not quite as far as bones and tendons but deeper than you would expect possible. At that moment the veins realised they were no longer connected to each other and began to leak. The nerves saw what the veins were doing and decided to join in. "Ok, ready, set... STING!"

Ow.

I'm lucky I didn't slash any major veins, but what I did cut is still oozing slightly after 12 hours. It seems okay now but I'm not game to remove the band-aid because I'll re-open the cut, and it seems to be healing and not hurting. I tried that this morning and undid the healing that happened overnight, and the hurting started again. Nerves: "Hey remember us? STING!" Ow.


And in other news, FLY! MY PRETTIES! FLYYYY!

On the weekend I carted a friend and her sticky kid home. The lad was one of these kids who has trouble getting food into his mouth and ends up wearing most of it, the rest is then smeared onto my car's right-hand rear window, just behind my head. My window was a horrible mess of melted M&Ms (hey they DO melt in your hand!) and icecream.

On the way back from work Polly discovered the cooling sweetness that is my car's window, and started lick-lick-licking it no matter how much I told her not to. "You don't know where that kid has been!"

Once again I was pulled over by a constable doing a random Breath Test. I showed her my licence and she poked the reader at my face. "Please say your name and address." I did so, the machine went beep, and the constable stepped back. "Thank you," she said. "Drive carefully and have a nice..." The pause dragged on.

"Afternoon?" I prompted, then noticed the cop was staring at my back window. I turned and saw that Polly was glaring at the constable, all official guard-dog like. The effect was spoiled because her nose was squashed flat against the glass and her pink tongue was fully extended and stuck to the glass below her chin, frozen in mid-lick. The dog saw me looking at her, so she slurped her tongue away and wagged. Her nose was still pressed against the glass. The cop looked at me and blinked.

"I don't have normal animals," I said. The cop shook her head and waved me on.

I don't have normal animals. I don't know why.

A loaf of bread failed. It looks like a nice loaf, but it's a bit smaller than usual and feels real heavy.

The bread making thingy worked okay yesterday so I don't know what the problem is today. I'll try again later when it's cooled off.

In the meantime, the meal worms will have a bready feast and get nice and fat, and I'll feed them to the bats. Xena happily munches through 30 worms a night. Warra guts!