Putting My Foot Under It

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAToday has been, sort of, a pensioner round-up.

We’ve done the gamut of parental units, showing our faces to let them know that we’re still alive and well and that we can still be left any inheritance when the time comes. You know, that sort of thing.

And all of it was relatively pain free until we went to my mum’s this afternoon and – again while Carole and my mum were out enjoying the joys of discount shopping – an accident befell me.

One of the tasks mum had for me was to, in her words, liberate some hotties. Which, in human terms, meant to get some of the heat logs that are stacked in the garage and put them at a height which is more suited to a tiny woman with monoscopic vision. We don’t think about what she does with them after that because, frankly, it’s too frightening to contemplate. Even when she was fully functional it was enough to chill the blood. She goes at them with an axe – even writing it makes me shudder – to halve them so they are more wieldy when it comes to putting them in the fire.

I set about liberating the hotties as requested. For those unfamiliar with the product, they are packs of ten “logs” made up of, basically, sawdust squished until it forms a log. The pack of ten logs is then wrapped in polythene and that is what I was hefting about.

I think I was on the second pack when the plastic gave way beneath my hand and I dropped the pack. Luckily, my foot was directly under it so it didn’t smash directly into the concrete floor of the garage. To say there was some swearing is to put it mildly. To say I didn’t want to take off my shoe in case the end of my foot was basically some sort of bony jelly is also putting it mildly.

It fricking hurt.

Now, some six or so hours on from the disaster, my foot still aches.

Not with the pain of a break. Of that I am ninety-nine percent certain. All my toes bend properly without eye-watering pain or any sort of grating noise as broken ends of bone rub against each other.

The bruises, though, are amazing.

If I was to do any sort of “this little pig…” malarkey with my toes, I could pretend that at least three of them were Gloucester Old Spots.

This evening, because I am a man of science at heart, I decided to look online to find out how much a pack of these heat logs weigh. You know, just out of morbid curiosity. They are, as mum told me after I had dropped this one on my foot, heavy. I knew that anyway, going into this in the first place.

But how heavy? Well, each log is a kilogram. And there are ten of them in a pack.

Yeah.

Ouch.

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